I just watched the first number of Wolphin, the DVD periodical that came with the newest issue of The Believer. Before I watched it, I was rather apathetic to the notion of "bonus" material being appended to this magazine; after all, their music issue featured a CD of stuff that, without even listening to, I blew off- modern indie rock bands doing indie rock covers, I think. Yawn. And this newest issue of The Believer focused on visual art, which isn't something I've ever been terribly interested in. Thankfully, after reading the magazine, I concluded that yeah, it's not my thing, but there was a fair amount of interesting material, so it's casual.
Wolphin turned out to be mighty nifty. Well, most of it. The thing I liked best was the short-short film Are You the Favorite Person of Anybody?, a question I answered to myself before even hitting 'play.' Other noteworthy material: The Delicious, about a man's attraction to and relationship with a pantsuit he found in his wife's closet, and The Big Empty, which involved the exploration of female nether regions in the most literal sense of the term. All in all, I was impressed, and I suppose it wouldn't offend anyone involved with the project for me to compare the films included to, well, an issue of McSweeney's, if McSweeney's also included odd Middle Eastern cartoons. (Wait, it might as well; like all McSweeney's stuff, The Believer always seems to feel the need to include some kind of non-sequitur, usually visual, which Wolphin also had. Point being that Eggers-backed projects, no matter the focus, tend to have some fluff, albeit more interesting fluff than what you'd find elsewhere.)
Time permitting, I'm going to go see Brokeback Mountain and/or Capote tomorrow. If I'm lucky, I'll catch one of 'em, 'cause I doubt I'll wake up in time to see both, especially if I have to walk to the theatre.
And now, dear reader, it's off to pay a visit to Nasht and Kaman-Thah- who I finally met, after much effort, not long ago.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The year in review, with a foreword re: the quandary of drink.
For every night I have like this- listening to good records, not bummed out by the prospect of tomorrow, writing stuff that seems solid- that involves alcohol, I have others that, while not lacking in good times, find me besotted and feeling any/all of the following: like an irredeemable alcoholic; sick; heartbroken (for no good reason); unnaturally nostalgic; anxious; foolish; stupid; forceably happy when I shouldn't be; etc. etc.
I can't really say what the ratio of good:bad drinking nights is, because I drink so often- statement of fact, not to be burdened with connotation- that keeping track would involve an act of mental bookkeeping that I'm not interested in performing.
Anyway, on to the main focus of this post. Elspeth, who is in terms of awesomeness the equivalent of a perpetual motion machine (i.e. unbelievable, but not unimaginable), posted on her journal a list of questions (source unknown) re: the past year. I've stolen these questions, since they're pretty decent and allow me the opportunity to ruminate on A.D. 2005 a bit. Thanks, Elspeth!
Unlike Elspeth, 2005 didn't feel like two years to me. If anything, it was a handful of selected weeks interspersed with my first real glimpses of the void that is aging.
On to the questions!
1. What did you do in 2005 that you'd never done before?
Engage in levels of interpersonal foolishness that I'd previously disdained. In retrospect, while I no longer have the moral high ground, this year's experience has been useful in that I know I'm not cut out for such things.
2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't think I made any.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not that I know of. (edit, a mere few hours after the original post) Someone I had a crush on is apparently gonna be spitting out a kid in the next few months. What can I say, other than I doubt I'll ever be able to raise a child if I remain as horribly skeptical about almost every aspect of life as I am now?
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, which I suspect will make 2005 the exception from now on. Entropy is stronger than any of us.
5. What countries did you visit?
Mexico, to visit my parents in Mexico City.
6. What would you like to have in 2006 that you lacked in 2005?
More dedication to my art, and success in convincing someone to publish that art.
7. What date from 2005 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
September 19th: I asked out Linda o-fficially at the High on Fire show. Personally, this speaks volumes about me.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Probably realizing that no, dude, you're not ever going to be important to anyone other than your friends and loved ones, and almost accepting that fact.
9. What was your biggest failure?
Assuming that I knew myself better than I really did (and still do).
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No, thankfully.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Pretty much every LP/CD and book I picked up this year.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Necessities: rent, utilities, food, beer, books, and records.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Linda. My continued attachment to the mortal coil. Writing. Reading. Meeting some fine folks.
16. What song will always remind you of 2005?
One? Shit, that's foolish, so here are a few that I can recall offhand: "Cometh Down Hessian," High on Fire; "When Will They Shoot?," Ice Cube; "Get Into It," Brant Bjork and the Bros; "For the Love of God," Ulver; anything off of Genevieve by Velvet Cacoon; "On the Mountain at Dawn," Om.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
Happier or sadder — Sadder.
Older or wiser — Both, but I'd qualify the latter by saying "painfully so...kinda."
Thinner or fatter? — Fatter, thanks to my beer habit.
Richer or poorer? — Richer, if only because I actually have a savings account now.
18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
I wish I'd written more, and pushed my second novel onto publishers/agents more stridently.
19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Waste time on pursuits I knew to be fruitless.
20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I already spent Christmas with my brother.
22. Did you fall in love in 2005?
Yeah.
24. What was your favorite TV program?
Battlestar: Galactica, despite seeing too little of it.
25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Only myself, and I'd say I'm disappointed, not hateful.
26. What was the best book you read?
All in all, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.
27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Dude, I bought so many albums that it would take far too long to sort through 'em to make a decision.
28. What did you want and get?
A slightly better understanding of what it'll take to call myself a writer and mean it.
29. What did you want and not get?
Peace of mind.
30. What was your favorite film of this year?
I saw very, very few movies this year, so I'd go with Broken Flowers.
31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I hung out with some folks here at the new(est) casa, and I turned 26.
32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Again, I can't choose one thing. Finding a publisher for my second novel would've been magnificent, and it would've been satisfying on multiple levels not to have let so many people, myself included, down.
33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2005?
No different than last year's: crude metalhead, i.e. good ol' shredded jeans, metal band t-shirts, battered footwear, and long, somewhat unkempt hair. (Fuck all y'all that mock my sideburns.)
34. What kept you sane?
A handful of beloved people, as well as literature and music.
35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
None of them, really. I don't even listen to Avril Lavigne much these days.
36. What political issue stirred you the most?
The existence of politics. Oh, you mean specifically: the continued existence of a nigh-certifiable idiot, surrounded by soulless and highly crafty bastards, in the Oval Office.
37. Who did you miss?
Elspeth. Andy. Bill. Amanda.
38. Who was the best new person you met?
Persons, not person. Linda and Elspeth, and, sadly only online, Shari, hands down.
39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2005:
Better get your shit together, Smith, if only for your own sake- but never forget that it's casual.
I can't really say what the ratio of good:bad drinking nights is, because I drink so often- statement of fact, not to be burdened with connotation- that keeping track would involve an act of mental bookkeeping that I'm not interested in performing.
Anyway, on to the main focus of this post. Elspeth, who is in terms of awesomeness the equivalent of a perpetual motion machine (i.e. unbelievable, but not unimaginable), posted on her journal a list of questions (source unknown) re: the past year. I've stolen these questions, since they're pretty decent and allow me the opportunity to ruminate on A.D. 2005 a bit. Thanks, Elspeth!
Unlike Elspeth, 2005 didn't feel like two years to me. If anything, it was a handful of selected weeks interspersed with my first real glimpses of the void that is aging.
On to the questions!
1. What did you do in 2005 that you'd never done before?
Engage in levels of interpersonal foolishness that I'd previously disdained. In retrospect, while I no longer have the moral high ground, this year's experience has been useful in that I know I'm not cut out for such things.
2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don't think I made any.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not that I know of. (edit, a mere few hours after the original post) Someone I had a crush on is apparently gonna be spitting out a kid in the next few months. What can I say, other than I doubt I'll ever be able to raise a child if I remain as horribly skeptical about almost every aspect of life as I am now?
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No, which I suspect will make 2005 the exception from now on. Entropy is stronger than any of us.
5. What countries did you visit?
Mexico, to visit my parents in Mexico City.
6. What would you like to have in 2006 that you lacked in 2005?
More dedication to my art, and success in convincing someone to publish that art.
7. What date from 2005 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
September 19th: I asked out Linda o-fficially at the High on Fire show. Personally, this speaks volumes about me.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Probably realizing that no, dude, you're not ever going to be important to anyone other than your friends and loved ones, and almost accepting that fact.
9. What was your biggest failure?
Assuming that I knew myself better than I really did (and still do).
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No, thankfully.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Pretty much every LP/CD and book I picked up this year.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Necessities: rent, utilities, food, beer, books, and records.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Linda. My continued attachment to the mortal coil. Writing. Reading. Meeting some fine folks.
16. What song will always remind you of 2005?
One? Shit, that's foolish, so here are a few that I can recall offhand: "Cometh Down Hessian," High on Fire; "When Will They Shoot?," Ice Cube; "Get Into It," Brant Bjork and the Bros; "For the Love of God," Ulver; anything off of Genevieve by Velvet Cacoon; "On the Mountain at Dawn," Om.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
Happier or sadder — Sadder.
Older or wiser — Both, but I'd qualify the latter by saying "painfully so...kinda."
Thinner or fatter? — Fatter, thanks to my beer habit.
Richer or poorer? — Richer, if only because I actually have a savings account now.
18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
I wish I'd written more, and pushed my second novel onto publishers/agents more stridently.
19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Waste time on pursuits I knew to be fruitless.
20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I already spent Christmas with my brother.
22. Did you fall in love in 2005?
Yeah.
24. What was your favorite TV program?
Battlestar: Galactica, despite seeing too little of it.
25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Only myself, and I'd say I'm disappointed, not hateful.
26. What was the best book you read?
All in all, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.
27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Dude, I bought so many albums that it would take far too long to sort through 'em to make a decision.
28. What did you want and get?
A slightly better understanding of what it'll take to call myself a writer and mean it.
29. What did you want and not get?
Peace of mind.
30. What was your favorite film of this year?
I saw very, very few movies this year, so I'd go with Broken Flowers.
31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I hung out with some folks here at the new(est) casa, and I turned 26.
32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Again, I can't choose one thing. Finding a publisher for my second novel would've been magnificent, and it would've been satisfying on multiple levels not to have let so many people, myself included, down.
33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2005?
No different than last year's: crude metalhead, i.e. good ol' shredded jeans, metal band t-shirts, battered footwear, and long, somewhat unkempt hair. (Fuck all y'all that mock my sideburns.)
34. What kept you sane?
A handful of beloved people, as well as literature and music.
35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
None of them, really. I don't even listen to Avril Lavigne much these days.
36. What political issue stirred you the most?
The existence of politics. Oh, you mean specifically: the continued existence of a nigh-certifiable idiot, surrounded by soulless and highly crafty bastards, in the Oval Office.
37. Who did you miss?
Elspeth. Andy. Bill. Amanda.
38. Who was the best new person you met?
Persons, not person. Linda and Elspeth, and, sadly only online, Shari, hands down.
39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2005:
Better get your shit together, Smith, if only for your own sake- but never forget that it's casual.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Of cigarettes and leisurely computing.
Smoking in bed with a laptop leads to many a cigarette tumbling from the ashtray onto either the floor, the lower bookshelf, the box spring, or parts unknown.
This is especially, if unrealistically, dangerous when you've got a Kalashnikov with a full magazine propped against the wall between your bed and the bookcase. Dangerous because in some alternate movie-like universe the cigarette could fall onto the magazine and manage to heat it to the point where one or more of the rounds therein would explode. Unrealistic because, well, shit, physics pretty much prevents such a thing from happening, as does my preternatural ability to snatch burning butts from places they belong before they cause damage (assuming I'm not drunk and/or distracted, which explains the cigarette burns on the carpet at my prior domicile at Melrose Place).
This is especially, if unrealistically, dangerous when you've got a Kalashnikov with a full magazine propped against the wall between your bed and the bookcase. Dangerous because in some alternate movie-like universe the cigarette could fall onto the magazine and manage to heat it to the point where one or more of the rounds therein would explode. Unrealistic because, well, shit, physics pretty much prevents such a thing from happening, as does my preternatural ability to snatch burning butts from places they belong before they cause damage (assuming I'm not drunk and/or distracted, which explains the cigarette burns on the carpet at my prior domicile at Melrose Place).
Monday, December 26, 2005
Not too shabby.
Thanks to my brother's generosity, I'm typing this message from my bed. Alas, there's no wireless connection just yet, but I'm not going to complain- I never imagined that I'd have a laptop anytime in the foreseeable future, but here I am, loafing like a 21st century Lin Yutang.
I hope everyone's Christmas was a good one.
I hope everyone's Christmas was a good one.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Merry Christmas!
Here's wishing all of you and your loved ones a merry Christmas. Enjoy your time with your family and friends, and remind them all of how much they mean to you. Due to circumstances, I won't be able to thank many people face to face for being such wonderful human beings, but rest assured, dear reader, that you are in my heart and mind this day.
You may now resume playing in piles of wrapping paper.
You may now resume playing in piles of wrapping paper.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Obligatory notes on the holidays.
For the second year in a row, I'll be spending Christmas with my brother, my parents being in Mexico City and therefore unavailable for what'll pass for festivities. Not that this weekend is lacking in Christmas cheer- I ate dinner at T'afia with my brother and Tracey last night, had drinks with them, Peter, Matt, Sara, and others, had more drinks with Sean and Vanessa. On top of that, I bought myself some new albums- Sig's Lagoon on Main is a pretty neat record store, and I'm glad I finally got to go- and a couple DVDs of Iron Maiden and Enslaved concerts, so I've got entertainment to last some time. Tonight, folks convene for glühwein and conviviality, so all's well there, too.
But I'm still kinda depressed about the whole Christmas thing. As happy as I am to get to spend it with Scott, I wish my family were here, and that I'd had the chance to see some other people as well. Work doesn't help my overall demeanor, either. And considering the year as a whole, I just feel older and increasingly stagnant. That's something to discuss another time, however, because right now, it's time to drop the needle on The Chronic.
But I'm still kinda depressed about the whole Christmas thing. As happy as I am to get to spend it with Scott, I wish my family were here, and that I'd had the chance to see some other people as well. Work doesn't help my overall demeanor, either. And considering the year as a whole, I just feel older and increasingly stagnant. That's something to discuss another time, however, because right now, it's time to drop the needle on The Chronic.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Dealing with internal organs: II
"You do understand that the heart wasn't the big thing for them, right?"
"Of course I do. But I'm not looking at it from their perspective."
"That's unfair, then."
"No, it's not. Just because they didn't care about the heart-"
"They did care. That's why they placed a scarab amulet over it."
"Fuck that. Protective or not, shit-dwelling beetles over my heart is no way to go."
"Why are you so up in arms about this?"
"Because the heart deserves better. Mine, at least."
"Can't you just be happy for the rest of their accomplishments? Embalming, architecture, hieroglyphics..."
"No."
"..."
"You want to know why? Because I don't want to. Sure, I know deep down that I'm pleased about those things. But they're fucking with the human heart, and I can't handle that. Beetles that roll balls of shit around are not appropriate guardians of the heart, whatever mythology or theology you buy into."
"You're being selfish."
"So fucking what? My heart hurts because there's a beetle sitting on it! Shit, that makes my brain hurt too!"
"Now you're just not making any sense. I thought we were talking about mummification."
"We're still talking about mummification. About what it does to the heart. And that's what I can't stand."
"It's a-"
"Don't fucking say 'it's a cultural thing.' You're missing my point."
"Please elucidate, then."
"They took everything else out and left my heart in the hands of a goddamned beetle."
"..."
"?"
"I'm so sorry."
"There was nothing anyone could do about it."
"Of course I do. But I'm not looking at it from their perspective."
"That's unfair, then."
"No, it's not. Just because they didn't care about the heart-"
"They did care. That's why they placed a scarab amulet over it."
"Fuck that. Protective or not, shit-dwelling beetles over my heart is no way to go."
"Why are you so up in arms about this?"
"Because the heart deserves better. Mine, at least."
"Can't you just be happy for the rest of their accomplishments? Embalming, architecture, hieroglyphics..."
"No."
"..."
"You want to know why? Because I don't want to. Sure, I know deep down that I'm pleased about those things. But they're fucking with the human heart, and I can't handle that. Beetles that roll balls of shit around are not appropriate guardians of the heart, whatever mythology or theology you buy into."
"You're being selfish."
"So fucking what? My heart hurts because there's a beetle sitting on it! Shit, that makes my brain hurt too!"
"Now you're just not making any sense. I thought we were talking about mummification."
"We're still talking about mummification. About what it does to the heart. And that's what I can't stand."
"It's a-"
"Don't fucking say 'it's a cultural thing.' You're missing my point."
"Please elucidate, then."
"They took everything else out and left my heart in the hands of a goddamned beetle."
"..."
"?"
"I'm so sorry."
"There was nothing anyone could do about it."
Dealing with internal organs: I
"Good news. The heart wasn't put into a canopic jar."
"No, there was just a scarab placed over it."
"An amulet. A scarab amulet."
"Still a goddamned beetle."
"No, there was just a scarab placed over it."
"An amulet. A scarab amulet."
"Still a goddamned beetle."
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Black metal and beer!
Immortal's At the Heart of Winter and Saint Arnold's Christmas Ale, specifically. No, the irony of anti-Christian music being paired with nominally Christian-themed alcohol (a sub-irony in itself), isn't lost on me. If anything, it's an excellent example of the ethical equivocation- pardon the alliteration- that imbues my being. Kind of.
As I said a couple weeks ago, work's been a real bitch since they laid one-third of my department off and laid all the responsibility for building and proofing ads on my shift. However, not even a threefold increase in my workload can stop me; I've found a way to put up with my massive proofreading load, and on top of that, I'm on the ball financially despite the current gift-giving season and I'm writing at a pace one might call "regular." There are, of course, some things, mainly social, that I haven't yet bested, but I'm working on 'em, even if the folks involved might not realize it.
My brother and I are having a get-together on Christmas Eve at his place. I'm not sure if food will be involved, but there will be hot spiced German wine at hand, as well as stimulating conversation. If you're interested in coming, let me know.
As I said a couple weeks ago, work's been a real bitch since they laid one-third of my department off and laid all the responsibility for building and proofing ads on my shift. However, not even a threefold increase in my workload can stop me; I've found a way to put up with my massive proofreading load, and on top of that, I'm on the ball financially despite the current gift-giving season and I'm writing at a pace one might call "regular." There are, of course, some things, mainly social, that I haven't yet bested, but I'm working on 'em, even if the folks involved might not realize it.
My brother and I are having a get-together on Christmas Eve at his place. I'm not sure if food will be involved, but there will be hot spiced German wine at hand, as well as stimulating conversation. If you're interested in coming, let me know.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
yawn
Aw, hell. I've only made it through two days of the work week, my usual gamer-ineptitude (as well as lack of patience) is flaring up while playing Shadow of the Colossus, and it's already 5:33 AM. I sure as fuck don't feel like writing or staying up until almost nine, like I did yesterday.
Might as well hit the rack soon. Friday morning can't get here soon enough.
Might as well hit the rack soon. Friday morning can't get here soon enough.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
An observation.
If I had a dollar for every morning I sat outside drinking a beer and watching the sun crawl up into the sky from the east, I could probably afford another sixer.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
An open letter to the folks who keep giving me good music
Dear Bill Clifford and Matt Smith,
Please send me more Jamaican ska (e.g. Prince Buster, if I gave you that album all those years ago) and British crust. If either of you happen to have early '70s dub (Lee "Scratch" Perry, King Tubby, etc.), or more Axegrinder songs available, such contributions would be appreciated.
Love always, no matter how gay it may sound,
Dave Smith
P.S. Bill: Mp3s of "Nevermind" and/or "In Utero" would hit the spot as well, and the Pietasters albums I left you would make for good times too.
P.P.S. Matt: full Amebix, Axegrinder, and any old British crust albums (as long as they're not shitty-sounding live albums) would be killer.
P.P.P.S. Cough 'em up, y'all!
Please send me more Jamaican ska (e.g. Prince Buster, if I gave you that album all those years ago) and British crust. If either of you happen to have early '70s dub (Lee "Scratch" Perry, King Tubby, etc.), or more Axegrinder songs available, such contributions would be appreciated.
Love always, no matter how gay it may sound,
Dave Smith
P.S. Bill: Mp3s of "Nevermind" and/or "In Utero" would hit the spot as well, and the Pietasters albums I left you would make for good times too.
P.P.S. Matt: full Amebix, Axegrinder, and any old British crust albums (as long as they're not shitty-sounding live albums) would be killer.
P.P.P.S. Cough 'em up, y'all!
Friday, December 09, 2005
"Grandma take me home"
Yes, the title comes from one of my favorite Nirvana songs, "Sliver," which I am currently listening to courtesy of the almighty Bill Clifford. And while it applies not only to the song and the adolescent memories attached thereto, it also finds a slightly less obvious application to the Christmas wish that was granted to me about 13.5 hours ago by the equally almighty Andy Link, namely his delivery of a PS2 and Shadow of the Colossus to my casa.
I've heard nothing but good about this game, and after a couple-three hours of dedicated playing, I myself have nothing but good to say about it, despite any intimations otherwise implied by the following comments.
Shadow of the Colossus makes me incredibly sad. See, from where I stand- early in the game, to be fair- it appears that the storyline so far is nothing more than an exercise in the worst kind of selfishness. You play some dude who wants an unnamed and undelineated female raised from the dead, so you take her to a beautifully ruined temple, where a disembodied voice essentially says "sure, we might be able to do that, if you kill sixteen living embodiments of the idols found here in the temple." Without a second thought, you mount your trusty steed and set out to flat-out MURDER the colossi that are the avatars of the idols.
MURDER. Because that's all it boils down to, as far as I can tell. Sure, they're huge, sometimes armed, and fucking scary, but until you show up, neither of the colossi I as a player has faced seems to be doing anything other than minding its own business. Yet what do I/my character do? Immediately do everything in our power to kill these titans, JUST TO BRING SOME DAME BACK TO LIFE. Climb up their gargantuan limbs, stab them in the head, loose arrows into their hooves, all for the sake of ONE person whose importance to the game's protagonist is presumably important, but not inherently so.
It's like having your girlfriend die, then dragging your ass out to some ancient Eastern temple and having a shining light tell you "hey, dude, go on out and butcher every beast you find that weighs more than four hundred pounds, and we'll bring her back to you."
As I noted, I'm barely into the game, but judging from Andy's reaction to the overall story, and my own awe at facing the colossi and feeling truly shitty at even attacking them, I still feel that Shadow of the Colossus is a cautionary tale, and maybe... hell, I don't know. All I know is that I've never come across a video game that simultaneously saddens me and makes me want to murder innocent, if terrifying, creatures, if only to see how things unfold.
It's the most beautiful game I've ever seen, in the sense that it makes me appreciate life and nature to a degree that so many other things have failed to. It's strange attributing that to a video game, but perhaps that's a sign that the medium has reached the point where it's capable of doing more than providing intellectual puzzles, laughs, and/or gratuitous violence. Games have done more than those things for me before, to be sure, but damn, never have I faced off with an "enemy" and wanted to flee because it was too majestic to slay in the name of a seemingly trite, narcissistic goal.
In some pathetic way, I hope progressing through Shadow of the Colossus will change things, show that the colossi are somehow malevolent and require death at the hands of the character and I... but I doubt that will happen, and in my heart of hearts, I don't want it to happen. Conventional game, and by extension general modern, morality would ruin what only a few hours of playing Shadow of the Colossus has shown me in terms of what games and art- because this is, undoubtedly, art- is capable of.
Back to my original point. "Grandma take me home." I don't want to play video games that make me feel terrible. I want to eat ice cream after dinner, watch TV, and wake up in my mother's arms. I don't want gorgeous, pixelated moral quandaries.
Oh, but sweet Jesus, I really do.
I DO.
I will take difficulties like this over reductionist swill any day of the week. And I'll listen to Incesticide and other brilliant albums the whole time.
But I have no intention of murdering anyone in the name of anyone else, as long as I can do so.
I might append a postscript to this once I finish Shadow of the Colossus, but don't hold your breath.
I've heard nothing but good about this game, and after a couple-three hours of dedicated playing, I myself have nothing but good to say about it, despite any intimations otherwise implied by the following comments.
Shadow of the Colossus makes me incredibly sad. See, from where I stand- early in the game, to be fair- it appears that the storyline so far is nothing more than an exercise in the worst kind of selfishness. You play some dude who wants an unnamed and undelineated female raised from the dead, so you take her to a beautifully ruined temple, where a disembodied voice essentially says "sure, we might be able to do that, if you kill sixteen living embodiments of the idols found here in the temple." Without a second thought, you mount your trusty steed and set out to flat-out MURDER the colossi that are the avatars of the idols.
MURDER. Because that's all it boils down to, as far as I can tell. Sure, they're huge, sometimes armed, and fucking scary, but until you show up, neither of the colossi I as a player has faced seems to be doing anything other than minding its own business. Yet what do I/my character do? Immediately do everything in our power to kill these titans, JUST TO BRING SOME DAME BACK TO LIFE. Climb up their gargantuan limbs, stab them in the head, loose arrows into their hooves, all for the sake of ONE person whose importance to the game's protagonist is presumably important, but not inherently so.
It's like having your girlfriend die, then dragging your ass out to some ancient Eastern temple and having a shining light tell you "hey, dude, go on out and butcher every beast you find that weighs more than four hundred pounds, and we'll bring her back to you."
As I noted, I'm barely into the game, but judging from Andy's reaction to the overall story, and my own awe at facing the colossi and feeling truly shitty at even attacking them, I still feel that Shadow of the Colossus is a cautionary tale, and maybe... hell, I don't know. All I know is that I've never come across a video game that simultaneously saddens me and makes me want to murder innocent, if terrifying, creatures, if only to see how things unfold.
It's the most beautiful game I've ever seen, in the sense that it makes me appreciate life and nature to a degree that so many other things have failed to. It's strange attributing that to a video game, but perhaps that's a sign that the medium has reached the point where it's capable of doing more than providing intellectual puzzles, laughs, and/or gratuitous violence. Games have done more than those things for me before, to be sure, but damn, never have I faced off with an "enemy" and wanted to flee because it was too majestic to slay in the name of a seemingly trite, narcissistic goal.
In some pathetic way, I hope progressing through Shadow of the Colossus will change things, show that the colossi are somehow malevolent and require death at the hands of the character and I... but I doubt that will happen, and in my heart of hearts, I don't want it to happen. Conventional game, and by extension general modern, morality would ruin what only a few hours of playing Shadow of the Colossus has shown me in terms of what games and art- because this is, undoubtedly, art- is capable of.
Back to my original point. "Grandma take me home." I don't want to play video games that make me feel terrible. I want to eat ice cream after dinner, watch TV, and wake up in my mother's arms. I don't want gorgeous, pixelated moral quandaries.
Oh, but sweet Jesus, I really do.
I DO.
I will take difficulties like this over reductionist swill any day of the week. And I'll listen to Incesticide and other brilliant albums the whole time.
But I have no intention of murdering anyone in the name of anyone else, as long as I can do so.
I might append a postscript to this once I finish Shadow of the Colossus, but don't hold your breath.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Text implosions are frustrating.
Ugh. I lost a pretty decently-written post concerning work (bad), writing (slow as molasses, but shaping up, especially with the impending arrival of a laptop), my future stint in Rome (not happening), and my head cold (annoying but hardly crippling). Fuck opening multiple windows, and viva tabs.
Which reminds me- I should download the new version of Firefox soon. Oh, and does anyone know if Shadow of the Colossus will ever be released on the Xbox? If it won't be, do me a favor and either buy/lend me a PS2. This game intrigues me greatly.
Which reminds me- I should download the new version of Firefox soon. Oh, and does anyone know if Shadow of the Colossus will ever be released on the Xbox? If it won't be, do me a favor and either buy/lend me a PS2. This game intrigues me greatly.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
My first publication in over two years is online!
Thieves Jargon has published "Western God Radio". Read it. It is motherfuckin' SOLID shit.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Proof that being good at what you do isn't always useful:
I didn't get laid off today.
In some way, I wish I had, but fuck it. Having a steady paycheck until I find a better job works for me, especially around this time of year. Regarding the job-tenure deal, though: fuck it. I don't want a "career." Never have. If that means I'm somehow less of an adult, fine, but at least I won't go to my grave as some grey-haired, Medicare-obsessed, mortgage-ridden old dude who bought into the "work all your life so you can spend retirement in senility" lie that too many people I know are buying into daily. I'd rather take my dirt nap poor, devoid of property, and rich in spirit/mind, thank you very much, even if that means I've got emphysema, scrape by on Social Security, don't own a home, and have no immediate family.
Or so I say now... but you know what? Fuck your American Dream, your western capitalism, and your suburban complacency, especially if you claimed to dislike such things in the first place. I'm gonna try to stick to my guns as long as I can, even if it earns scorn from supposedly "better" members of society.
Li Po over Byron any motherfuckin' drunken day of the week.
Better to go like a Chinese poet than a goddamned English nobleman.
In some way, I wish I had, but fuck it. Having a steady paycheck until I find a better job works for me, especially around this time of year. Regarding the job-tenure deal, though: fuck it. I don't want a "career." Never have. If that means I'm somehow less of an adult, fine, but at least I won't go to my grave as some grey-haired, Medicare-obsessed, mortgage-ridden old dude who bought into the "work all your life so you can spend retirement in senility" lie that too many people I know are buying into daily. I'd rather take my dirt nap poor, devoid of property, and rich in spirit/mind, thank you very much, even if that means I've got emphysema, scrape by on Social Security, don't own a home, and have no immediate family.
Or so I say now... but you know what? Fuck your American Dream, your western capitalism, and your suburban complacency, especially if you claimed to dislike such things in the first place. I'm gonna try to stick to my guns as long as I can, even if it earns scorn from supposedly "better" members of society.
Li Po over Byron any motherfuckin' drunken day of the week.
Better to go like a Chinese poet than a goddamned English nobleman.
"Another victim of a slaughter prophecy"
Twelve hours from now, I will know whether or not I will still have a job with my current employer. Whatever the outcome, I remain apathetic.
In the meantime, life is good: riffs on vinyl via headphones, beers with Ashley, John Thomason's Fix Bayonets!, a fresh paycheck, and a paying proofreading gig courtesy of Len Bracken. Fuck some goddamned job; I've got what matters.
In the meantime, life is good: riffs on vinyl via headphones, beers with Ashley, John Thomason's Fix Bayonets!, a fresh paycheck, and a paying proofreading gig courtesy of Len Bracken. Fuck some goddamned job; I've got what matters.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Ave vinylus!
O disc
analog
and
usually black
spew forth thy songs for this needle junkie
long after the lenses of the world
bow to their optical overlords
then we shall see
who laughs
at atavism.
analog
and
usually black
spew forth thy songs for this needle junkie
long after the lenses of the world
bow to their optical overlords
then we shall see
who laughs
at atavism.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Fuck cleaning!
Last night I popped a few keys off of my keyboard in order to see just how much filth had built up in there over the past four years, and because the Y key was sticking. Beneath the keys was an assortment of vile things, much of which I managed to extract, but upon replacing the keys, some of them stuck even worse than the original offender. I knew I shouldn't have fucked around, but that's what I get: now my typing speed is a joke, because I have to pound the space bar hard just to get it to work.
On the plus side, I'm drinking beer from a WWI canteen cup and listening to the all-around gorgeous Cerys Matthews.
On the plus side, I'm drinking beer from a WWI canteen cup and listening to the all-around gorgeous Cerys Matthews.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
"It's a trap!"
I spent Thanksgiving Day and Friday in the Hill Country, a region of Texas that I've passed through but never lingered in, and damn, was it a good time. Scott, Tracey, and I stayed at her folks' house in Fredericksburg, played dominoes, drank beer with family affiliates, shot the shit, attended the excellent "Island Assault: 1944" program put on by reenactors from the Pacific War Museum, and closed out our trip at a ranch owned by a friend of Tracey's, who was a good dude and very much reminded me of a character that would've fit into Cryptonomicon.
Getting out of Houston and having a blast was good for me, especially after the shitty week I'd had up until we hit the road. Soon, I'll get to see Peter, Matt, and Sara, drink some more beer, and still have Sunday to kick back and maybe do some writing. Hope still shines.
np: Slough Feg, Atavism
Getting out of Houston and having a blast was good for me, especially after the shitty week I'd had up until we hit the road. Soon, I'll get to see Peter, Matt, and Sara, drink some more beer, and still have Sunday to kick back and maybe do some writing. Hope still shines.
np: Slough Feg, Atavism
Thursday, November 24, 2005
A Hyphenated and Truncated Thanksgiving
I give thanks to the crypto-Gnostic/proto-Kierkegaardian God I believe in for:
He-Who-Is-Mata: Comrade, I will be the Jackson to your Dux, or vice versa, until both of us take our leave of this planet.
She-Who-Is-Shari: Life would suck immensely without you, b'y.
They-Who-Were-Metallica: May I see your collective hair and fingers flying in Headbanger Heaven.
The-Ale-That-Is-Old-Speckled-Hen: keep thee English, even at thy high import prices.
I should be in far lower spirits than I am, but I'm currently swamped by lack of sleep, lack of writing, and a genuine desire not to run my mouth (online and offline, especially offline) more than I should. So, in essence, and in the politicized spirit of Thanksgiving...
Thank you all, whether you're mentioned by name here or not. Thank you all so very, very much, whether or not you have done me well, hurt me, or otherwise. Without you, I would not be here, at least not in the form I currently am.
Never forget how much I love you all. If you do, well, that's what you get for being human, but so be it.
"FUCK IT ALL AND FUCKING NO REGRETS" -Metallica, "Damage, Inc."
He-Who-Is-Mata: Comrade, I will be the Jackson to your Dux, or vice versa, until both of us take our leave of this planet.
She-Who-Is-Shari: Life would suck immensely without you, b'y.
They-Who-Were-Metallica: May I see your collective hair and fingers flying in Headbanger Heaven.
The-Ale-That-Is-Old-Speckled-Hen: keep thee English, even at thy high import prices.
I should be in far lower spirits than I am, but I'm currently swamped by lack of sleep, lack of writing, and a genuine desire not to run my mouth (online and offline, especially offline) more than I should. So, in essence, and in the politicized spirit of Thanksgiving...
Thank you all, whether you're mentioned by name here or not. Thank you all so very, very much, whether or not you have done me well, hurt me, or otherwise. Without you, I would not be here, at least not in the form I currently am.
Never forget how much I love you all. If you do, well, that's what you get for being human, but so be it.
"FUCK IT ALL AND FUCKING NO REGRETS" -Metallica, "Damage, Inc."
Monday, November 21, 2005
Another benefit of 19713
Life was better when I didn't get drunk constantly and never posted shit online.
The road to hell...
Thanks to:
My brother and Tracey, for pumping me full of alcohol, debate, and sympathy.
Bruce Dickinson, for Accident of Birth, being who he is, and putting things into the perspective that outweighs most other perspectives.
And most importantly Linda, for saying something sooner than later, despite the repercussions. Thank you for being who you are, and I will always love you.
My brother and Tracey, for pumping me full of alcohol, debate, and sympathy.
Bruce Dickinson, for Accident of Birth, being who he is, and putting things into the perspective that outweighs most other perspectives.
And most importantly Linda, for saying something sooner than later, despite the repercussions. Thank you for being who you are, and I will always love you.
Once all the screens are aside:
Sunday the 20th was an awful day.
I realized that I was unsuitable to be a boyfriend.
Among other things.
Worse- worst- yet, I failed. Terribly.
Words fail. Actions fail. Lack of actions fail. I fail.
I survive, as does love. Love will always survive.
I love you, Linda.
I realized that I was unsuitable to be a boyfriend.
Among other things.
Worse- worst- yet, I failed. Terribly.
Words fail. Actions fail. Lack of actions fail. I fail.
I survive, as does love. Love will always survive.
I love you, Linda.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Make haste, Rome
Two weeks from Friday, I'll find out whether or not I still have a job.
I could rave on about how sickening the office culture at my workplace is, but I'm not going to bother. I'll just quote the most asinine, repellent, smarmy thing I heard earlier today: "One plus two can't always equal three."
In other news, Thieves Jargon offered to publish an old story (and hopefully future graphic novel) of mine, "Western God Radio." I'll let y'all know when it hits their website, but for the time being, go over there and read some of their archives.
I could rave on about how sickening the office culture at my workplace is, but I'm not going to bother. I'll just quote the most asinine, repellent, smarmy thing I heard earlier today: "One plus two can't always equal three."
In other news, Thieves Jargon offered to publish an old story (and hopefully future graphic novel) of mine, "Western God Radio." I'll let y'all know when it hits their website, but for the time being, go over there and read some of their archives.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
In a world of compromise... some don't
I am now the proud and incredibly thrilled owner of Bolt Thrower's newest album, Those Once Loyal. I ordered it from The End Records last week, and while I received the other stuff I requested, the Bolt Thrower album wasn't included. No problem, sez I, and promptly made my way to Sound Exchange and bought it, since today (technically yesterday) was the US release date.
I'd heard two songs via Metal Blade's website, but after hearing the whole record, I have to say that the songs in question ("Salvo" and "Entrenched") are by no means the best that Those Once Loyal has to offer. Not to say that they're bad- shit, man, they're fucking Bolt Thrower songs- but they've got nothing on tunes like "The Killchain," which continues the thematic opening/closing riff heard previously in "World Eater," "Cenotaph," "Embers," and Powder Burns,"; "Anti-Tank (Dead Armour)"; and "When Cannons Fade." Overall, Those Once Loyal wins out over the last couple of Bolt Thrower albums because there aren't any slow points. I don't mean speed, per se, because TWL is typically Bolt Thrower in its mix of grinding speed and (as everyone on the goddamned planet puts it) tank-paced rhythm, but rather that TWL doesn't drag. I really think that this new album, in that respect, is at the top of my personal Bolt Thrower album heap- there's not a single song I ever want to skip, because everything flows perfectly.
Of course, it doesn't hurt that Karl Willetts is back on vocals, and that Jo Bench's bass is nicely high in the mix. This isn't a comeback album, however. It's simply Bolt Thrower as they are meant to be.
Here is to one of the best bands ever. Period. "In a world of compromise... some don't."
Friday, November 11, 2005
The beginning of the 20th century as you know it...
...ended at 11:11 AM, November 11, 1918, when the Armistice was declared between France, Great Britain, Germany, Austria, Turkey, Italy, the United States, and every other country, dominion, and colony that embroiled itself in the Great War of 1914-1918.
Today, in the US, it's Veterans Day. My pops is a veteran of the Vietnam war, as is my uncle. My deceased granddad fought in Burma during the Second World War, and a great-uncle of mine served in the Great War, where he was gassed. I don't know that Veterans Day covers Confederate veterans- probably not- but a distant relative of mine fought for the Confederacy, too.
I grew up in the shadow of the military, yet was never pressed by anyone into becoming part of the body that cast that shadow. In deference to the thousands and thousands of people who gave their lives defending ideals they believed in, I will not politicize this day, which I personally will always call Armistice Day, because I'm fascinated by the Great War. I will say this, however: it is because of the sacrifice of others that I am the man I am today, and it is because of the people who sacrificed that I am not a soldier, or more likely a Marine, for which both they and I are grateful. The choice not to become an armed servant of the state is, I think, one of the few things about being a citizen of a democracy that cannot be lauded highly enough, and for that, I thank everyone who did choose, for whatever reason, to take up arms for a greater ideal. Thank you for letting me- and I speak for the American public here- be me, no matter how much you like or dislike me, because the fact that you would fight in my name says enough about you, politics aside.
Here's to every last soul that etched this date in stone: French, German, British, Belgian, Russian, Austrian, Italian, Serbian, Montenegrin, American, Turkish, Romanian, Australian, New Zealander, Canadian, Indian, Portuguese, Afrikaner, Moroccan, Senegalese, Chinese, Ammanite, Japanese... every soul, military or civilian, that dealt with over four years of horror in the hopes of seeing a better world come of it. I'm sorry that it hasn't completely worked out that way, and it may never will, but we're trying. Most importantly, know that someone out there, his raging cynicism and anarchism aside, refuses to forget you.
Today, in the US, it's Veterans Day. My pops is a veteran of the Vietnam war, as is my uncle. My deceased granddad fought in Burma during the Second World War, and a great-uncle of mine served in the Great War, where he was gassed. I don't know that Veterans Day covers Confederate veterans- probably not- but a distant relative of mine fought for the Confederacy, too.
I grew up in the shadow of the military, yet was never pressed by anyone into becoming part of the body that cast that shadow. In deference to the thousands and thousands of people who gave their lives defending ideals they believed in, I will not politicize this day, which I personally will always call Armistice Day, because I'm fascinated by the Great War. I will say this, however: it is because of the sacrifice of others that I am the man I am today, and it is because of the people who sacrificed that I am not a soldier, or more likely a Marine, for which both they and I are grateful. The choice not to become an armed servant of the state is, I think, one of the few things about being a citizen of a democracy that cannot be lauded highly enough, and for that, I thank everyone who did choose, for whatever reason, to take up arms for a greater ideal. Thank you for letting me- and I speak for the American public here- be me, no matter how much you like or dislike me, because the fact that you would fight in my name says enough about you, politics aside.
Here's to every last soul that etched this date in stone: French, German, British, Belgian, Russian, Austrian, Italian, Serbian, Montenegrin, American, Turkish, Romanian, Australian, New Zealander, Canadian, Indian, Portuguese, Afrikaner, Moroccan, Senegalese, Chinese, Ammanite, Japanese... every soul, military or civilian, that dealt with over four years of horror in the hopes of seeing a better world come of it. I'm sorry that it hasn't completely worked out that way, and it may never will, but we're trying. Most importantly, know that someone out there, his raging cynicism and anarchism aside, refuses to forget you.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
I don't read the warning labels, either.
Man, I can't believe I just now noticed that cigarettes made by Brown and Williamson are now made by RJ Reynolds, and apparently have been for about a year. Jesus.
I wonder what happened to all the B&W workers who were union members once B&W merged with RJR, who was as I understand it the only major tobacco company that didn't have a unionized workforce. If Luckies and Pall Malls are now scab brands, I reckon it's time to go back to Chesterfields. Not that doing so will hurt my feelings; it's just a bitch to get to the Heights to buy 'em.
I wonder what happened to all the B&W workers who were union members once B&W merged with RJR, who was as I understand it the only major tobacco company that didn't have a unionized workforce. If Luckies and Pall Malls are now scab brands, I reckon it's time to go back to Chesterfields. Not that doing so will hurt my feelings; it's just a bitch to get to the Heights to buy 'em.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Good one, dude.
I can't seem to get any of it right sometimes.
Why did I leave that pint of Canadian Club in my brother's car?
Why did I leave that pint of Canadian Club in my brother's car?
Friday, November 04, 2005
Repetition? No matter. We're talking about one of the finest bands in rock n' roll history here.
Blue Öyster Cult.
Everyone knows I love them. Many people I know like some of their songs, and not just the ones played on classic rock radio ("(Don't Fear) The Reaper," "Godzilla," "Burnin' For You"). For the most part, however, I can't think of anyone I know personally who really, really, really likes BÖC. There are plenty of strangers who do, and I'm not just talking about internet nerds; Mike Watt of the Minutemen is a vocal BÖC fan, and Martin Popoff, of Brave Words & Bloody Knuckles magazine fame, wrote a goddamned book about the band- and a spectacularly cool one, I might add. My lament is that I have nobody in my life who could (or would), say, sit down and discuss that while Mirrors may be a slack follow-up to a follow-up of a record, it's still none too shabby, and listen to me argue that the cover art is fucking cool as hell, in the way that the cover of Judas Priest's American release of Point of Entry is cool.
And this is my complaint about my friends. Not because they're shitty friends, or philistines, or whatever, but because none of them really give a fuck about Blue Öyster Cult. Be thankful, fuckers, that that is pretty much my sole complaint with most of you, and that you can remedy it quite easily: listen to BÖC songs other than the radio hits, and embrace the incredibly brilliant combination of rock n' roll/metal/songwriting/idiosyncrasy/sci-fi/"occult"ism/laser action (to name a few elements) that is Blue Öyster Cult.
While you're at it, read Martin Popoff's amazing song-by-song breakdown of BÖC's discography, and WEEP at the genius of the band and their compatriots.
ON YOUR FEET...
OR ON YOUR KNEES...
THE
BLUE
ÖYSTER
CULT!
"Your power is my drug."
Everyone knows I love them. Many people I know like some of their songs, and not just the ones played on classic rock radio ("(Don't Fear) The Reaper," "Godzilla," "Burnin' For You"). For the most part, however, I can't think of anyone I know personally who really, really, really likes BÖC. There are plenty of strangers who do, and I'm not just talking about internet nerds; Mike Watt of the Minutemen is a vocal BÖC fan, and Martin Popoff, of Brave Words & Bloody Knuckles magazine fame, wrote a goddamned book about the band- and a spectacularly cool one, I might add. My lament is that I have nobody in my life who could (or would), say, sit down and discuss that while Mirrors may be a slack follow-up to a follow-up of a record, it's still none too shabby, and listen to me argue that the cover art is fucking cool as hell, in the way that the cover of Judas Priest's American release of Point of Entry is cool.
And this is my complaint about my friends. Not because they're shitty friends, or philistines, or whatever, but because none of them really give a fuck about Blue Öyster Cult. Be thankful, fuckers, that that is pretty much my sole complaint with most of you, and that you can remedy it quite easily: listen to BÖC songs other than the radio hits, and embrace the incredibly brilliant combination of rock n' roll/metal/songwriting/idiosyncrasy/sci-fi/"occult"ism/laser action (to name a few elements) that is Blue Öyster Cult.
While you're at it, read Martin Popoff's amazing song-by-song breakdown of BÖC's discography, and WEEP at the genius of the band and their compatriots.
ON YOUR FEET...
OR ON YOUR KNEES...
THE
BLUE
ÖYSTER
CULT!
"Your power is my drug."
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Good news for flame-warmongers and their camp followers!
RPG.net, which some of you might remember as having foolishly ran a column of mine for a year, has recently posted a review of a new role-playing games called Empire of Satanis (sic). The review tears the game apart, but the fun starts when you get to the comments and, from there, the pissing match between the reviewer, a couple other folks, and the game's creator. With any luck, this debacle could escalate to Derek Smart/Battlecruiser 3000 proportions, which would be solid flamewar gold. Nota bene: is it a coincidence that the creator of Empire of Satanis is also named Darrick? OF COURSE NOT. Dudes whose first names are variants of Derek/Derrick/Darrick will be to flamewars what dudes with three names are to mass murder.
Man oh man, I really love the internet!
P.S. I just reread several of my old RPG.net columns, and while I totally failed to impart to readers any useful advice about writing fiction, I gotta say that the writing ain't half bad.
Man oh man, I really love the internet!
P.S. I just reread several of my old RPG.net columns, and while I totally failed to impart to readers any useful advice about writing fiction, I gotta say that the writing ain't half bad.
Monday, October 31, 2005
"I remember Halloween"
Sadly, the headline for this post, taken from the Misfits' song "Halloween," is the best way to describe my current relationship with one of my favorite holidays. It's been a while since Halloween has been truly fun, and now that I work nights, celebrating Halloween in even the most quotidian fashion is out of the question until I either get another job or Halloween once again falls on a weekend.
It's a bummer all around.
It's a bummer all around.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Lame. And awesome.
Lame: I bought a copy of Danzig's best album, Lucifuge, earlier tonight, because I haven't had one in ages. I was highly disappointed to find out that the liner notes didn't unfold into the shape of an inverted cross, like earlier versions did. What the fuck, man?
Awesome: I also picked up Against All Authority's Nothing New For Trash Like You, which is a collection of old songs off of 7"s and such. Bill, ye oldest buddye on thee earthe, is responsible for turning me onto these dudes years ago, and ever since I lost the AAA tape he made me in '97 or so, I've missed listening to songs like "Above the Law"- the stuff on their full-lengths never quite hit the spot as much as their lesser-known material. Now I am content.
Awesome: I also picked up Against All Authority's Nothing New For Trash Like You, which is a collection of old songs off of 7"s and such. Bill, ye oldest buddye on thee earthe, is responsible for turning me onto these dudes years ago, and ever since I lost the AAA tape he made me in '97 or so, I've missed listening to songs like "Above the Law"- the stuff on their full-lengths never quite hit the spot as much as their lesser-known material. Now I am content.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
I take my cues from New Jersey
My oldest friend on Earth, Bill, recently posted a list of suitably autumnal albums. I'd do the same, but I'm lazy, but reading his comments compelled me to note Houston's own change in the weather, which is thoroughly pleasant as of late. It's time for jackets, pipes full of University Flake tobacco, Oktoberfest beers and glasses of Powers whiskey, turning off the AC and sleeping with the windows open, and slightly mournful books.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
"Wake me up and take me away"
I really want to be sitting in the living room of 19713 Westbridge Lane c. 1998-99, watching The X-Files and drinking coffee, right now.
Failing that, I'd like to be doing the same thing in some sort of astral/temporal projection sense, my 1998-99 in the recliner or on the couch as I sat nearby enjoying the exploits of Mulder and Scully and mulling over my past (and very present, under those circumstances) self's life.
Unheimlich is gonna be updated in a few minutes.
Failing that, I'd like to be doing the same thing in some sort of astral/temporal projection sense, my 1998-99 in the recliner or on the couch as I sat nearby enjoying the exploits of Mulder and Scully and mulling over my past (and very present, under those circumstances) self's life.
Unheimlich is gonna be updated in a few minutes.
The etymological root of distraction is "internet"
So here I am, smoking a cigarette, working on Unheimlich and occasionally flipping to the archives of the DFW-centric wallace-l mailing list, when I find myself reading tangentially-related celebrity gossip. Okay. Fine. Say la vee. But then, on the selfsame mailing list, I see this, and immediately have to mention it publicly so that Andy will have a link:
BRIEF INTERVIEWS WITH HIDEOUS MEN: THE POSSIBLE MOVIE"
And now it's back to writing.
Once I finish reading more recent wallace-l posts, that is.
BRIEF INTERVIEWS WITH HIDEOUS MEN: THE POSSIBLE MOVIE"
And now it's back to writing.
Once I finish reading more recent wallace-l posts, that is.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Conquering das Schnitzelberg
Friday night I went to see Opeth, Pelican, and Fireball Ministry at the Meridian. I dig the venue, even though $3.50 for a Lone Star is kinda steep, and all the bands kicked ass. I'd heard about Pelican here and there, but never listened to them until now. I was highly impressed, and picked up their album The Fire In Our Throats Will Beckon The Thaw, which I'd recommend to anyone who's fond of metal/post-rock instrumentals. Opeth was better than the last time I saw 'em, mainly because they didn't play as much stuff off of Deliverance and Damnation. They even opened with my favorite song off their new record, namely "The Baying of the Hounds." Good times all around.
I spent Saturday visiting Matt and Holly at their new place in the Hoodlands. I went up there with Linda, since she hadn't met 'em yet, and everyone present thoroughly enjoyed themselves. We ate dinner at Alpenhaus, which was even better than I remembered it; the Oktoberfest celebration added to the experience, since Spaten Oktoberfest beer was $11 a pitcher, and there were a couple cool musicians providing the finest in accordion/guitar German music. The guitarist was a German-turned-American (he came over here in 1960 (!)), and part of their repertoire was Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" in German. Sehr gut, y'all.
So, yeah, life's been all right. Same ol' shit for the most part, but that's no surprise. Been trying to write more in the way of short stories lately, as well as tapping away ever so slowly at Unheimlich. Reading tons of shit, too, and spending lots of, but not enough, time with Linda. All in, yours truly is doin' all right. It's casual.
I spent Saturday visiting Matt and Holly at their new place in the Hoodlands. I went up there with Linda, since she hadn't met 'em yet, and everyone present thoroughly enjoyed themselves. We ate dinner at Alpenhaus, which was even better than I remembered it; the Oktoberfest celebration added to the experience, since Spaten Oktoberfest beer was $11 a pitcher, and there were a couple cool musicians providing the finest in accordion/guitar German music. The guitarist was a German-turned-American (he came over here in 1960 (!)), and part of their repertoire was Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" in German. Sehr gut, y'all.
So, yeah, life's been all right. Same ol' shit for the most part, but that's no surprise. Been trying to write more in the way of short stories lately, as well as tapping away ever so slowly at Unheimlich. Reading tons of shit, too, and spending lots of, but not enough, time with Linda. All in, yours truly is doin' all right. It's casual.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Cacktacular!
It's quarter till five in the A.M., and I'm currently drinking all my roommate's beer (which I will replace tomorrow- I'm not one of those kinds of pricks), working on Unheimlich, reading the correspondence between Dave Sim and Alan Moore, listening to Gwar, and generally enjoying life.
Linda lent me a book called Stiff, which is about the things cadavers have done/had done to them over the course (or corse- heh, I love me some anachronistic wordplay, which in this case I did not get from the aforementioned book) of written history. I started it last night/tonight- "tonight" extends until I go to bed or dawn comes- and I will probably have it done by this time tomorrow. It's fuckin' awesome, and easily one of the funniest things I've read outside of Dave Wallace in a while. If any of you fuckers are boring CSI/pathologist-wannabe nerds, pick it up; if you're not, you should definitely pick it up. I'd rather people who didn't want to make so-called career decisions based on TV shows read the book and appreciate its approach to life and death. (If TV influenced me that much, I'd swallow my anarchist beliefs and become an FBI agent in the vein of Dale Cooper or Fox Mulder, but, alas for the Feds, I'd rather be a broke-ass motherfucker with a fairly intact sense of dignity.)
I could go on a rant about the popularity of forensics, or at least the televised-whore version thereof, but I won't, because writing a novel about an unhappy, little-late-but-hey-what-the-hell-pseudo-lesbian "escapist" is way more important.
HAIL SADDAM-A-GO-GO!
Linda lent me a book called Stiff, which is about the things cadavers have done/had done to them over the course (or corse- heh, I love me some anachronistic wordplay, which in this case I did not get from the aforementioned book) of written history. I started it last night/tonight- "tonight" extends until I go to bed or dawn comes- and I will probably have it done by this time tomorrow. It's fuckin' awesome, and easily one of the funniest things I've read outside of Dave Wallace in a while. If any of you fuckers are boring CSI/pathologist-wannabe nerds, pick it up; if you're not, you should definitely pick it up. I'd rather people who didn't want to make so-called career decisions based on TV shows read the book and appreciate its approach to life and death. (If TV influenced me that much, I'd swallow my anarchist beliefs and become an FBI agent in the vein of Dale Cooper or Fox Mulder, but, alas for the Feds, I'd rather be a broke-ass motherfucker with a fairly intact sense of dignity.)
I could go on a rant about the popularity of forensics, or at least the televised-whore version thereof, but I won't, because writing a novel about an unhappy, little-late-but-hey-what-the-hell-pseudo-lesbian "escapist" is way more important.
HAIL SADDAM-A-GO-GO!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
A brief fictional exchange w/real-life coda
"Time enthusiast."
"Yes, that's me."
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"Exactly what it sounds like."
"Um."
"I like time. It's my hobby."
"How can time be a hobby?"
"I enjoy it. I watch it pass. Observing time is like... bird-watching, I suppose."
"So you like seeing what happens as time passes."
"Yes, but I'm particularly fond of watching time itself."
"How can you watch time? You can only tell it's there based on its effects."
"I'm afraid that is why I am a time enthusiast and you are not."
My girlfriend and I were briefly discussing political standings the other night, and she described herself as, ideally, a "rational anarchist." Need I say what effect that statement had on me?
"Yes, that's me."
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"Exactly what it sounds like."
"Um."
"I like time. It's my hobby."
"How can time be a hobby?"
"I enjoy it. I watch it pass. Observing time is like... bird-watching, I suppose."
"So you like seeing what happens as time passes."
"Yes, but I'm particularly fond of watching time itself."
"How can you watch time? You can only tell it's there based on its effects."
"I'm afraid that is why I am a time enthusiast and you are not."
My girlfriend and I were briefly discussing political standings the other night, and she described herself as, ideally, a "rational anarchist." Need I say what effect that statement had on me?
Thursday, October 13, 2005
A lazy middle finger to modern society
Fuck you, work.
And fuck you, October 16th, AKA National Boss Day. This has to be the most revolting excuse for a holiday I've ever seen. Of all the people who deserve a day of recognition, bosses of all stripes do not qualify. Sickening.
And fuck you, October 16th, AKA National Boss Day. This has to be the most revolting excuse for a holiday I've ever seen. Of all the people who deserve a day of recognition, bosses of all stripes do not qualify. Sickening.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Erdinger: my new favorite hefe-weizen
According to the fine, fine news organ that is the Houston Chronicle, H-Town should be getting its first taste of, ahem, cool weather sometime tonight. I'm skeptical as to how long it'll last- I'm willing to bet that strolling down the street at the end of the month will still make my balls sweat, but hey, I wouldn't mind being wrong in this case.
It appears that my brother will be going to New Zealand after all. I'm not sure when, exactly, but more power to him. It's nice to know one of the Smith boys is doing something with his life, 'cause I sure as hell don't seem to be. On the flip side, however, my lethargy when it comes to pushing my dreams of being a writer forward is growing old, and I'm takin' steps towards getting my shit together. Almost two years of virtual inactivity on the attempted-publication front is getting a bit old.
Oh, and whenever my brother leaves the country, I'll have a car again. I'm highly ambivalent about this, all things considered. I see myself driving to places that I've become accustomed to walking to, and that's just fuckin' grotesque.
It appears that my brother will be going to New Zealand after all. I'm not sure when, exactly, but more power to him. It's nice to know one of the Smith boys is doing something with his life, 'cause I sure as hell don't seem to be. On the flip side, however, my lethargy when it comes to pushing my dreams of being a writer forward is growing old, and I'm takin' steps towards getting my shit together. Almost two years of virtual inactivity on the attempted-publication front is getting a bit old.
Oh, and whenever my brother leaves the country, I'll have a car again. I'm highly ambivalent about this, all things considered. I see myself driving to places that I've become accustomed to walking to, and that's just fuckin' grotesque.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
When everything turns to shit...
"The Phantom Lord has never failed."
Yeah, despite my lengthy, energetic rant about David Lynch and such, today's been a real downer. I wish there was more I could do, but I can't cure fucked-up human and feline diseases, and neither can Metallica's "Phantom Lord" or any of their other songs. Fuck.
While it's no consolation to Sara or her cat Cleo, heavy metal helps me through the rough times. Always has. Let's hope it always will.
Fuck.
Yeah, despite my lengthy, energetic rant about David Lynch and such, today's been a real downer. I wish there was more I could do, but I can't cure fucked-up human and feline diseases, and neither can Metallica's "Phantom Lord" or any of their other songs. Fuck.
While it's no consolation to Sara or her cat Cleo, heavy metal helps me through the rough times. Always has. Let's hope it always will.
Fuck.
Foolishness vs. Foolishness©.
Wiley Wiggins is always a good source of material worthy of thought and research, and it was at his site that I just read about David Lynch and his connections to Transcendental Meditation. I'd heard of this connection before, but until Herr Wiggins mentioned that TM (oh, the irony in the abbreviation) was a cult of sorts, I'd always thought that David Lynch had simply discovered some kind of pseudo-hippie mind-clearing thing.
Hey, fine. As many of you know, David Lynch has been one of my favorite directors since I was seventeen, and that I admire not only his work but the man himself immensely. His movies and televison work, especially Twin Peaks, have shaped my approach to writing, and viewing the world, in more ways than I feel like relating right now. So what if he's a big fan of meditation or whatever? I'd meditate properly if I had the patience for it, but instead I'm content to watch condensation run down a beer can or follow the spirals of smoke coming from the end of my cigarette.
But, as mentioned, that was before I started reading about Transcendental Meditation. Much like Scientology, it reeks of bullshit, particularly for one reason: it claims that science backs it up.
This is unacceptable. Un-fucking-acceptable. Some of the half-dozen of you that read this blog may be aware that I have an ongoing, albeit far from violent, relationship with Christianity. If I was up to it at the moment, I'd get into that, but suffice to say that I spent a couple formative years being a real asshole of a Christian, and then gave it up in favor of other things. Mind you, I never gave up on it entirely; Christian theology is still on my mind constantly, and while I cannot call myself a Christian anymore, I still feel more affinity for that religion than any other one out there, save perhaps Taoism, and only if Taoism is stripped of its religiosity. (Now that I think about it, that may be the case with Christianity, but to a lesser degree; further thought on the matter is necessary.) Anyway, one thing I've concluded about my approach to religion as a pseudo-insider is that to try and provide it with some kind of rational or scientific basis in order to appease or prove something to nonbelievers is not only futile, but flat-out wrong. (I thank Søren Kierkegaard for this, as well as all the secular existentialists that have provided so much of my basis for a philosophy of life over the past half-dozen years.)
Why is it wrong? Christ, ask your average Baptist. Even they know that faith is exactly that: faith. It doesn't, and shouldn't, rely on any kind of framework outside of that basic tenet. Doing so undermines the linchpin of any religious impulse, although I will not deny that envisioning science as a glorious extension of religious faith- within bounds, mind you; I'm not advocating something idiotic like Creationism or, possibly even worse, Intelligent Design- is a bad thing. I simply do not want to see science used as a tool to prove the validity of religion. Or vice versa. I'm not going to play Stephen Jay Gould's Rocks of Ages card here, despite the clarity of his arguments in said book. Faith is faith, and therefore moves as the human heart and mind does; science is science, and relies on everything that faith does not. Refusing to believe in a god is one thing; refusing to believe empirical evidence provided by folks who willingly admit that there is room for error and will correct their views if new data arises, is another.
So, back to my main point. David Lynch's association with Transcendental Meditiation is bullshit, because TM claims that science backs it up. As I understand it, the scientific claims of TM are dubious, and presented to the public in a most selective fashion- i.e. a fashion that will sell TM to anyone who's willing to accept a set of figures and charts at face value. It really disappoints me to hear that Lynch is part of this whole thing.
But.
As I've written in previous entries, an artist's personal views do not necessarily stop me from enjoying their work, and patronizing their current and future endeavors. I will continue to watch any and all films that David Lynch releases, because I have more faith in him as an artist than I do lack of faith in him as an artist swindled by some bullshit swami. On the same note, I hope that anyone who reads my novel (and hopefully novels, in the near future) doesn't turn their back on me because I'm continually fascinated by the notion of the Christian Trinity. I will, however, say this much: I do not espouse any strain of Christian thought that would dare to suborn science in the name of religion. Religious scientists? Sure, as long as they realize that God does not want them to lie in nomine Patris, or, in another case, concoct poisonous lead-based elixirs because some post hoc Taoist gods told 'em it was a good idea.
Applicability aside, religion is about the search for (subjective? objective? I'd go with the former) truth, and to lay the truth aside for the sake of dogma is one hell of a motherfuckin' sin. May whatever god(s) you believe in smite you if you fail to acknowledge that the world around you is simply beyond question. To quote a Danzig t-shirt: "God don't like it."
Finalmente: my brand of foolishness is better than yours, because I'm not raping some other field of knowledge in order to justify my own field of knowledge.
(I hope you read this, Linda, since I have yet to cough up a suitable rant in your presence.)
Hey, fine. As many of you know, David Lynch has been one of my favorite directors since I was seventeen, and that I admire not only his work but the man himself immensely. His movies and televison work, especially Twin Peaks, have shaped my approach to writing, and viewing the world, in more ways than I feel like relating right now. So what if he's a big fan of meditation or whatever? I'd meditate properly if I had the patience for it, but instead I'm content to watch condensation run down a beer can or follow the spirals of smoke coming from the end of my cigarette.
But, as mentioned, that was before I started reading about Transcendental Meditation. Much like Scientology, it reeks of bullshit, particularly for one reason: it claims that science backs it up.
This is unacceptable. Un-fucking-acceptable. Some of the half-dozen of you that read this blog may be aware that I have an ongoing, albeit far from violent, relationship with Christianity. If I was up to it at the moment, I'd get into that, but suffice to say that I spent a couple formative years being a real asshole of a Christian, and then gave it up in favor of other things. Mind you, I never gave up on it entirely; Christian theology is still on my mind constantly, and while I cannot call myself a Christian anymore, I still feel more affinity for that religion than any other one out there, save perhaps Taoism, and only if Taoism is stripped of its religiosity. (Now that I think about it, that may be the case with Christianity, but to a lesser degree; further thought on the matter is necessary.) Anyway, one thing I've concluded about my approach to religion as a pseudo-insider is that to try and provide it with some kind of rational or scientific basis in order to appease or prove something to nonbelievers is not only futile, but flat-out wrong. (I thank Søren Kierkegaard for this, as well as all the secular existentialists that have provided so much of my basis for a philosophy of life over the past half-dozen years.)
Why is it wrong? Christ, ask your average Baptist. Even they know that faith is exactly that: faith. It doesn't, and shouldn't, rely on any kind of framework outside of that basic tenet. Doing so undermines the linchpin of any religious impulse, although I will not deny that envisioning science as a glorious extension of religious faith- within bounds, mind you; I'm not advocating something idiotic like Creationism or, possibly even worse, Intelligent Design- is a bad thing. I simply do not want to see science used as a tool to prove the validity of religion. Or vice versa. I'm not going to play Stephen Jay Gould's Rocks of Ages card here, despite the clarity of his arguments in said book. Faith is faith, and therefore moves as the human heart and mind does; science is science, and relies on everything that faith does not. Refusing to believe in a god is one thing; refusing to believe empirical evidence provided by folks who willingly admit that there is room for error and will correct their views if new data arises, is another.
So, back to my main point. David Lynch's association with Transcendental Meditiation is bullshit, because TM claims that science backs it up. As I understand it, the scientific claims of TM are dubious, and presented to the public in a most selective fashion- i.e. a fashion that will sell TM to anyone who's willing to accept a set of figures and charts at face value. It really disappoints me to hear that Lynch is part of this whole thing.
But.
As I've written in previous entries, an artist's personal views do not necessarily stop me from enjoying their work, and patronizing their current and future endeavors. I will continue to watch any and all films that David Lynch releases, because I have more faith in him as an artist than I do lack of faith in him as an artist swindled by some bullshit swami. On the same note, I hope that anyone who reads my novel (and hopefully novels, in the near future) doesn't turn their back on me because I'm continually fascinated by the notion of the Christian Trinity. I will, however, say this much: I do not espouse any strain of Christian thought that would dare to suborn science in the name of religion. Religious scientists? Sure, as long as they realize that God does not want them to lie in nomine Patris, or, in another case, concoct poisonous lead-based elixirs because some post hoc Taoist gods told 'em it was a good idea.
Applicability aside, religion is about the search for (subjective? objective? I'd go with the former) truth, and to lay the truth aside for the sake of dogma is one hell of a motherfuckin' sin. May whatever god(s) you believe in smite you if you fail to acknowledge that the world around you is simply beyond question. To quote a Danzig t-shirt: "God don't like it."
Finalmente: my brand of foolishness is better than yours, because I'm not raping some other field of knowledge in order to justify my own field of knowledge.
(I hope you read this, Linda, since I have yet to cough up a suitable rant in your presence.)
Monday, October 03, 2005
nichts
If I ever had the chance to be someone other than who I am, and decided to actually take that chance, I would be one of the following:
No.
I would love to visit the past and do things that the Dave Smith of today would never have the opportunity to do, but I don't think I would ever really want to be anyone other than David Addison Smith, whatever that has ever, does, and will ever, entail. There never has been, and never will be, another me to cough and stroll his way across the days, weeks, years, plagued by doubt and happiness. This is right. It's just me and my dreams, the latter as nebulous as the former, and both as thin and ephemeral as the world which anchors them, though no less powerful for all that.
Time, marching in leaden boots, sometimes in straight lines, sometimes in lazy spirals; sometimes hand in hand with Self, sometimes utterly disassociated. I can feel it all unraveling and knitting back together, drawing in new strands and threads, dropping old ones only to pick them up again and add them to the skein at hand.
Nothing makes sense, and it never has to. Just play the hands across the loom, hear the click of the shuttle, and realize that you weave nothing, march nowhere. The universe started in that void that is the moment before you started walking, before you sat down to weave. Before God put on his boots and took a seat at the loom. Walk. Weave. Return to nothing. Nothing is you, me, everything: terrifying indeed. We all wanted to march somewhere, weave a tapestry of meaning, and some of us- the fools, the geniuses, the madmen- did, or are, or will. But the threads, rich and vibrant, and the road, dusty and choking and stretching on between rows of stately trees, are not really there. The trick is not caring. Weave on. Walk on. Ex nihilo, ad nihilo. Nothing is the shining substance(lessness) that was, is, will be. Ignore the tight, tiny gaps between threads, and pay no mind to the spaces between footfalls, even though they are where you are.
Nothing makes sense, and it never has to.
No.
I would love to visit the past and do things that the Dave Smith of today would never have the opportunity to do, but I don't think I would ever really want to be anyone other than David Addison Smith, whatever that has ever, does, and will ever, entail. There never has been, and never will be, another me to cough and stroll his way across the days, weeks, years, plagued by doubt and happiness. This is right. It's just me and my dreams, the latter as nebulous as the former, and both as thin and ephemeral as the world which anchors them, though no less powerful for all that.
Time, marching in leaden boots, sometimes in straight lines, sometimes in lazy spirals; sometimes hand in hand with Self, sometimes utterly disassociated. I can feel it all unraveling and knitting back together, drawing in new strands and threads, dropping old ones only to pick them up again and add them to the skein at hand.
Nothing makes sense, and it never has to. Just play the hands across the loom, hear the click of the shuttle, and realize that you weave nothing, march nowhere. The universe started in that void that is the moment before you started walking, before you sat down to weave. Before God put on his boots and took a seat at the loom. Walk. Weave. Return to nothing. Nothing is you, me, everything: terrifying indeed. We all wanted to march somewhere, weave a tapestry of meaning, and some of us- the fools, the geniuses, the madmen- did, or are, or will. But the threads, rich and vibrant, and the road, dusty and choking and stretching on between rows of stately trees, are not really there. The trick is not caring. Weave on. Walk on. Ex nihilo, ad nihilo. Nothing is the shining substance(lessness) that was, is, will be. Ignore the tight, tiny gaps between threads, and pay no mind to the spaces between footfalls, even though they are where you are.
Nothing makes sense, and it never has to.
Righteous.
Time definitely moves differently when you spend it with a solid dame. For the first time in a long while, this weekend didn't seem too short.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
And then he began writing.
Trite, but seemingly true: happiness doesn't breed much in the way of writing, and not only because you find yourself spending more time with the source of that happiness than at the computer.
Maybe it's only an initial thing, and will wear off once regular behavior patterns are formed. Maybe those patterns are already emerging; this is the first night in a while that I haven't spent with Linda, or anyone else for that matter, and the quiet unease I'd grown accustomed to and made the most of is seeping back in, and back out into the pages of Unheimlich. It's very reassuring, knowing that I haven't traded one form of happiness for another, but I'm curious as to when a real point of equilibrium will be reached, and if it's necessary in the first place.
I could really use a drink right now, but when was the last time I said that and didn't mean it?
Maybe it's only an initial thing, and will wear off once regular behavior patterns are formed. Maybe those patterns are already emerging; this is the first night in a while that I haven't spent with Linda, or anyone else for that matter, and the quiet unease I'd grown accustomed to and made the most of is seeping back in, and back out into the pages of Unheimlich. It's very reassuring, knowing that I haven't traded one form of happiness for another, but I'm curious as to when a real point of equilibrium will be reached, and if it's necessary in the first place.
I could really use a drink right now, but when was the last time I said that and didn't mean it?
A glass of Scotch is called for
It's one of those nights where you stop what you're doing, think about things for a little while, then resume your previous activity, having failed to reach any conclusions.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
"Rita strikes out." -MSS
Well, that was a joke. Houston flipped its lid over Rita, and the only thing that happened was a 72-hour traffic jam, a few downed tree limbs and power outages, and a lot of bad news reporting. Even tropical storm Allison was more imposing and damaging. I feel really badly for everyone north and east of here that got fucked over; it really seemed like this big one was meant for us.
Anyway, riding out the anticlimatic storm was amusing enough, and nothing happened to my apartment. Didn't even lose power, though my brother unfortunately did. Poison Girl stayed open, so we had a drink there after cruising around the damp ghost towns that were Montrose and downtown. Dave shot some footage of the ride, which I hope to watch soon.
So, there you have it. A dull report of an equally dull non-event. Or, more accurately, a dull non-event from where I was standing. I'm sure everyone who actually suffered from it would say otherwise, but hey, I'm not speaking for them, am I?
All right, I'm tired. Adios.
Anyway, riding out the anticlimatic storm was amusing enough, and nothing happened to my apartment. Didn't even lose power, though my brother unfortunately did. Poison Girl stayed open, so we had a drink there after cruising around the damp ghost towns that were Montrose and downtown. Dave shot some footage of the ride, which I hope to watch soon.
So, there you have it. A dull report of an equally dull non-event. Or, more accurately, a dull non-event from where I was standing. I'm sure everyone who actually suffered from it would say otherwise, but hey, I'm not speaking for them, am I?
All right, I'm tired. Adios.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Fuck you, cunt!
So some windy bitch named Rita might be heading towards H-Town, bent on ruining the lives of all the fine folks who live here. I'm especially targeted because I live in Montrose, which loves to flood whenever there's more than a few hours' hard rain. I'm not as bad off as all the folks living east and south of here, but shit, I've already had one apartment flooded, and the one I'm in now has carpet and will require a lot more work to get back up to snuff if the shit hits the fan.
Thankfully, Dave and I have already decided to split town in the wee hours if things get really bad, and several people have offered us places to stay until it's safe to return home. I've also had the opportunity to hang out with my new girlfriend, the (to quote Peter Ackroyd's version of John Milton) highly delightful Linda, quite often, so if by some freak occurence these are my final days, they've been good ones. Diolch yn fawr, Duw.
But they won't be my last days. Fuck no. Dave Smith is mightier than... no, I can't say it. Won't say it. Conan might get away with "CROM LAUGHS AT YOUR FOUR WINDS!", but I'm with Subotai on this one, and the four winds are far mightier than that fickle tunnel-dwelling bastard Crom.
On the other hand, should this be the end of me, rest assured that I will go to my death with beer, book, tobacco, and rifle at hand.
"Fix bayonets!"
"Stand by to repel boarders!"
Thankfully, Dave and I have already decided to split town in the wee hours if things get really bad, and several people have offered us places to stay until it's safe to return home. I've also had the opportunity to hang out with my new girlfriend, the (to quote Peter Ackroyd's version of John Milton) highly delightful Linda, quite often, so if by some freak occurence these are my final days, they've been good ones. Diolch yn fawr, Duw.
But they won't be my last days. Fuck no. Dave Smith is mightier than... no, I can't say it. Won't say it. Conan might get away with "CROM LAUGHS AT YOUR FOUR WINDS!", but I'm with Subotai on this one, and the four winds are far mightier than that fickle tunnel-dwelling bastard Crom.
On the other hand, should this be the end of me, rest assured that I will go to my death with beer, book, tobacco, and rifle at hand.
"Fix bayonets!"
"Stand by to repel boarders!"
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Four days off from the drudgery mill
I spent the last four days actually doing things, which was quite a change from my usual routine of sluggishness and loafing.
Friday: Hung out with Scott, Andy, and Dave at Niko Niko's, bought a bunch of wine to take to my mom, and closed out the evening with Linda.
Saturday: Went to my uncle's place, where I saw him and my folks. My mom had arranged a gathering in celebration of my uncle turning 70, so there were about a dozen and a half good East Texas folks there, all sitting around under the trees drinking beer and telling stories. Good times were had by all, and the hummingbirds were out in force, which was quite entertaining.
Sunday: Stayed at my uncle's later than usual, because my mom and Tracey and I opened a couple bottles of wine and everyone ended up sitting at the dining table shootin' the shit and taking photographs. I also borrowed my uncle's copy of John Thomason's Fix Bayonets! and Other Stories, which will undoubtedly provide hours of good reading. Got home, and despite my exhaustion, spent the evening with Linda drinking beer at the Harp and coffee at my house.
Monday: I'd already taken the day off to see High on Fire, and Linda had invited me to play D&D with her friends, so it looked like my day was good to go. Unfortunately, the D&D game was canceled, so Linda and I just loafed around at her place, playing with her holy terror of a new kitten. Early in the afternoon, Matt Pike called me told me he'd put me on the guest list for the show- score! Scott, Tracey, Linda, and I assembled at the Engine Room around nine, watched HoF, and then pounded back shots and jawed with Matt Pike. It was still early, so Linda and I went to Poison Girl, had another beer, and came back here to let some of the booze wear off before she went home.
It's time to drag my carcass to work, so any further anecdotes will come later. Suffice to say it's been a hell of a weekend.
Friday: Hung out with Scott, Andy, and Dave at Niko Niko's, bought a bunch of wine to take to my mom, and closed out the evening with Linda.
Saturday: Went to my uncle's place, where I saw him and my folks. My mom had arranged a gathering in celebration of my uncle turning 70, so there were about a dozen and a half good East Texas folks there, all sitting around under the trees drinking beer and telling stories. Good times were had by all, and the hummingbirds were out in force, which was quite entertaining.
Sunday: Stayed at my uncle's later than usual, because my mom and Tracey and I opened a couple bottles of wine and everyone ended up sitting at the dining table shootin' the shit and taking photographs. I also borrowed my uncle's copy of John Thomason's Fix Bayonets! and Other Stories, which will undoubtedly provide hours of good reading. Got home, and despite my exhaustion, spent the evening with Linda drinking beer at the Harp and coffee at my house.
Monday: I'd already taken the day off to see High on Fire, and Linda had invited me to play D&D with her friends, so it looked like my day was good to go. Unfortunately, the D&D game was canceled, so Linda and I just loafed around at her place, playing with her holy terror of a new kitten. Early in the afternoon, Matt Pike called me told me he'd put me on the guest list for the show- score! Scott, Tracey, Linda, and I assembled at the Engine Room around nine, watched HoF, and then pounded back shots and jawed with Matt Pike. It was still early, so Linda and I went to Poison Girl, had another beer, and came back here to let some of the booze wear off before she went home.
It's time to drag my carcass to work, so any further anecdotes will come later. Suffice to say it's been a hell of a weekend.
Friday, September 16, 2005
No favors/salute to fiction
I'm not doing myself any favors by posting almost every night/morning/whatever you diurnal people call it. Folks have gotta be missin' out on my quality bullshit, flooded as they are with it.
Anyway, I'm writing to say thanks to Willow Rosenberg and Tara Maclay.
Anyway, I'm writing to say thanks to Willow Rosenberg and Tara Maclay.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Three kinds of people:
1) Those I don't know. Assuming they're not some kind of public figure whose actions and words are broadcast far and wide with the express purpose of provoking a response from those who take in said words and actions, I like people I don't know, or more precisely, I like the potential imbued in people I don't know. Saying howdy to people I pass on the street is meaningful, in some small way; so is a couple minutes' worth of shooting the breeze with the guy next to you in the bar, or exchanging a smile with the mail carrier, und so weiter. It doesn't matter if anything becomes of it; as a matter of fact, in many cases I almost prefer momentary, ephemeral interaction, because prolonged exposure to others can create
2) People I know and dislike, distrust, am repelled by, am disgusted by, and/or any other number of negative things. Sadly, this category of people makes up a disproportionate number of of the human beings I deal with regularly, mainly due to the fact that I have a job and am exposed to various media. "Familiarity breeds contempt." Luckily, there are
3) People I know and like. These are the ones that really matter the most, although they all necessarily sprang from the first category. There's not much to say about this class of people, other than that I'm thankful to know them, and wish there were more of them. Alas, some grotesque, seemingly convoluted but probably really quite simple laws of human society dictate that shitheads outnumber good folks by at least 10,000,000 to 1.
It's no surprise that I'm not a very social man, then. Conversely, it makes perfect sense that I value my friends, family, and loved ones as much as I do; they're proof that the odds aren't totally against me. Between category three folks and category one strangers (who are exempt from the numbers game because I don't know them and therefore am compelled to qualify them as an unknown quantity; it's when I get to know someone that they fall into the second or, far less often, third categories), I'm not doing too badly.
I'm very good at boring myself, if you can't tell. Fine- better to bore myself than have someone else do it.
2) People I know and dislike, distrust, am repelled by, am disgusted by, and/or any other number of negative things. Sadly, this category of people makes up a disproportionate number of of the human beings I deal with regularly, mainly due to the fact that I have a job and am exposed to various media. "Familiarity breeds contempt." Luckily, there are
3) People I know and like. These are the ones that really matter the most, although they all necessarily sprang from the first category. There's not much to say about this class of people, other than that I'm thankful to know them, and wish there were more of them. Alas, some grotesque, seemingly convoluted but probably really quite simple laws of human society dictate that shitheads outnumber good folks by at least 10,000,000 to 1.
It's no surprise that I'm not a very social man, then. Conversely, it makes perfect sense that I value my friends, family, and loved ones as much as I do; they're proof that the odds aren't totally against me. Between category three folks and category one strangers (who are exempt from the numbers game because I don't know them and therefore am compelled to qualify them as an unknown quantity; it's when I get to know someone that they fall into the second or, far less often, third categories), I'm not doing too badly.
I'm very good at boring myself, if you can't tell. Fine- better to bore myself than have someone else do it.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Go ahead and yawn, but...
here's another brief, hip-hop related post:
Ice Cube's "When Will They Shoot?" is one of the best songs I've heard this year. Too bad I'm about thirteen years late, and that I'm one of the white devils Cube rails against.
Fuck it.
Why have Ice Cube, the Geto Boys, NWA, and, as of tonight, good ol' 3rd Bass and Digital Underground been my writing music of choice lately? None of them have shit to do with Unheimlich, but hey, results are results, right?
Ice Cube's "When Will They Shoot?" is one of the best songs I've heard this year. Too bad I'm about thirteen years late, and that I'm one of the white devils Cube rails against.
Fuck it.
Why have Ice Cube, the Geto Boys, NWA, and, as of tonight, good ol' 3rd Bass and Digital Underground been my writing music of choice lately? None of them have shit to do with Unheimlich, but hey, results are results, right?
Monday, September 12, 2005
If it's about food, is it really trivial?
For months now, I've bought Vavel sauerkraut from Poland. It's more expensive than American brands, but it's also very crisp and keeps well.
Yesterday I went to Fiesta to do some grocery shopping and grabbed my standard jar of Vavel sauerkraut. I noticed that there were orange bits in it, but the label said that the only ingredients were, as usual, cabbage and salt. Really? Is there no word in Polish for "carrots"? 'Cause you could've fooled me- those orange bits sure looked and tasted like carrots. The 'kraut was less crisp, and sweeter, than usual, but don't get me wrong; I'm still buying this particular brand. I'm simply curious about the change in recipe that's so clearly there.
Oh, and by the way, English bar managers with mad literary knowledge, good looks, and senses of humor really know how to make a dude's day.
Yesterday I went to Fiesta to do some grocery shopping and grabbed my standard jar of Vavel sauerkraut. I noticed that there were orange bits in it, but the label said that the only ingredients were, as usual, cabbage and salt. Really? Is there no word in Polish for "carrots"? 'Cause you could've fooled me- those orange bits sure looked and tasted like carrots. The 'kraut was less crisp, and sweeter, than usual, but don't get me wrong; I'm still buying this particular brand. I'm simply curious about the change in recipe that's so clearly there.
Oh, and by the way, English bar managers with mad literary knowledge, good looks, and senses of humor really know how to make a dude's day.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Of Beer and Beards, Or, Another Quotidian Missive
Our man received today his bi-weekly infusion of funds, given to him in exchange for his labor and a tiny but noticeable fraction of his psychic well-being, and, being the affiliate of drink that he is, promptly purchased himself twelve cans of Texan swill and twenty papered twists of fine Virginia tobacco. Several of these beers disappeared down our man's gullet in little time, for he is a thirsty youth, and one whose brain is most delighted by the play thereupon of alcohol and tobacco, surely two of the Lord's finest gifts to his sinful creation.
The youth, as some of his closest conspirators may know, has been contemplating growing his whiskers, in the hopes of achieving a beard to rival that of a grizzled Kentuckian or melancholic New England author from the days of yore. However, such facial hirsuteness strikes our man as unbecoming a man of as few years as he, despite his knowing that in the past a full beard was the true mark of a viable, virile male. Or, perhaps, his reluctance to pursue whisker-growth is a sign of his recognition that, age and experience aside, he does not feel aged enough to wear a beard decisively, and that postponing the complete abjuration of razor and strop is a wise decision for the time being. Ah, but how he longs for the day when he need not raise a hand to his jaw to stroke his whiskers in contemplation, but only need fold his hands over his breastbone and achieve that same outward sign of inward cogitation! "Time, good man, time," he says to himself.
Time! Our man is ever aware of that recursive beast, the shimmering lemniscate that most believe linear, but that the gnosis-minded among us know is a far more complex creature, Ourouboros-like in its maddening self-swallowing. It is this awareness that brings our man back to the icebox, where cold brews await him, and to the desk, where he seeks to pen words that will express a sliver of the many things that roil in his flaxen skull. He wishes all a good evening, and recommends that you investigate the newest additions to his work in progress, the Teutonically-titled Unheimlich, which is nigh twenty pages longer than the last time it was made public. Good night, mankind!
The youth, as some of his closest conspirators may know, has been contemplating growing his whiskers, in the hopes of achieving a beard to rival that of a grizzled Kentuckian or melancholic New England author from the days of yore. However, such facial hirsuteness strikes our man as unbecoming a man of as few years as he, despite his knowing that in the past a full beard was the true mark of a viable, virile male. Or, perhaps, his reluctance to pursue whisker-growth is a sign of his recognition that, age and experience aside, he does not feel aged enough to wear a beard decisively, and that postponing the complete abjuration of razor and strop is a wise decision for the time being. Ah, but how he longs for the day when he need not raise a hand to his jaw to stroke his whiskers in contemplation, but only need fold his hands over his breastbone and achieve that same outward sign of inward cogitation! "Time, good man, time," he says to himself.
Time! Our man is ever aware of that recursive beast, the shimmering lemniscate that most believe linear, but that the gnosis-minded among us know is a far more complex creature, Ourouboros-like in its maddening self-swallowing. It is this awareness that brings our man back to the icebox, where cold brews await him, and to the desk, where he seeks to pen words that will express a sliver of the many things that roil in his flaxen skull. He wishes all a good evening, and recommends that you investigate the newest additions to his work in progress, the Teutonically-titled Unheimlich, which is nigh twenty pages longer than the last time it was made public. Good night, mankind!
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Recognition at the moment of impact
"Subdivisions" by Rush is one of those songs I really, really like but never think about until I'm going through my records and run across the LP it belongs to (Signals, if you didn't know). As I put it on the turntable and dropped the needle, the appropriateness of what I was doing struck me. I'm working on a part of Unheimlich that takes place in the suburbs, and while the attitude isn't quite in line with the song's, it's nevertheless fitting.
Ah, moments.
Ah, moments.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
"Damn it feels good to..."
...space out with cheap wine, Luckies, and an ever-increasing collection of Geto Boys tunes. Especially when you're gettin' some writing done.
The day may come when this shit catches up with me, and I probably won't be ready for it, but all I can say is that I doubt I'll regret it too much. Or that I hope I won't regret it too much.
Hot damn, time to quit thinkin' and make with the fiction.
And some more vino.
The day may come when this shit catches up with me, and I probably won't be ready for it, but all I can say is that I doubt I'll regret it too much. Or that I hope I won't regret it too much.
Hot damn, time to quit thinkin' and make with the fiction.
And some more vino.
Monday, September 05, 2005
So long, Melrose Place.
My brother and I, with help from Tracey and Lisa, cleared out and cleaned up 1920 W. Alabama today. I spent five hours carrying trash downstairs, scrubbing futilely at the stained carpet, and watching two vacuum cleaners die unpleasant, horrible-smelling deaths. There was also beer.
Now I'm exhausted, so it's time to go stretch out, watch Buffy, and say hello to the ferrets. More later, perhaps.
Now I'm exhausted, so it's time to go stretch out, watch Buffy, and say hello to the ferrets. More later, perhaps.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Hit the bricks.
Some non-smokers are shocked when they ask how much a pack of cigarettes costs and I tell them "around four bucks."
"Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?" Yeah, it is expensive, which is why, with the exception of the past week, I've been rolling my own, which runs me about eight bucks a week, if that. (By the way, my cigarette consumption has remained at roughly ten a day, give or take, since I decided to cut back.) I can afford it because it's one of the few luxuries I allow myself, along with a couple-three albums or books a month and a few sixers of beer.
Now that gas is three bucks a gallon and climbing, I can ask people who drive "Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?", but the odds of them admitting that driving, like smoking, is a luxury, are slim to none.
It's all right for folks to tell me to quit smoking, but God forbid I tell them to quit driving.
"Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?" Yeah, it is expensive, which is why, with the exception of the past week, I've been rolling my own, which runs me about eight bucks a week, if that. (By the way, my cigarette consumption has remained at roughly ten a day, give or take, since I decided to cut back.) I can afford it because it's one of the few luxuries I allow myself, along with a couple-three albums or books a month and a few sixers of beer.
Now that gas is three bucks a gallon and climbing, I can ask people who drive "Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?", but the odds of them admitting that driving, like smoking, is a luxury, are slim to none.
It's all right for folks to tell me to quit smoking, but God forbid I tell them to quit driving.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Oh, God, poor New Orleans.
No, I didn't pay that much attention to the tsunami which Hurricane Katrina has been (wrongly) compared to. No, I didn't donate any money or time to help the hundreds of thousands of people fucked over by that particular natural disaster. Shit, I've barely done anything to help the, well, hundreds of thousands of people ruined by Katrina, aside from donate a little money I don't have to the Red Cross.
But.
I am a little ashamed that my humanitarian impulses are not only few, but selective. In this case, I've opted to donate to people I can relate to, even in the most distant sense: fellow Southerners. You know what, though? Fuck it. I dare anyone to tell me, and mean it, that they'd be more willing to help out someone on the other side of the world than someone they have some kind of affinity with.
This has nothing to do with nation or race or politics. It has to do with neighbors, in the broadest sense of the term. I've failed to help out all kinds of people the world over, even here in my own damned city of Houston, but shit, H-Town never got swallowed by water, did it? My point is that this tragedy, in my mind, outweighs anything my "neighbors" have faced in a long time, and for fuck's sake, this time I couldn't sit idly by and do nothing.
As always, I've failed to put my point across properly, but I'm not the focus here. Please, folks, do what you can.
But.
I am a little ashamed that my humanitarian impulses are not only few, but selective. In this case, I've opted to donate to people I can relate to, even in the most distant sense: fellow Southerners. You know what, though? Fuck it. I dare anyone to tell me, and mean it, that they'd be more willing to help out someone on the other side of the world than someone they have some kind of affinity with.
This has nothing to do with nation or race or politics. It has to do with neighbors, in the broadest sense of the term. I've failed to help out all kinds of people the world over, even here in my own damned city of Houston, but shit, H-Town never got swallowed by water, did it? My point is that this tragedy, in my mind, outweighs anything my "neighbors" have faced in a long time, and for fuck's sake, this time I couldn't sit idly by and do nothing.
As always, I've failed to put my point across properly, but I'm not the focus here. Please, folks, do what you can.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Self vs. Self
At some point between one o'clock and three o'clock this afternoon, I decided to make an effort to curb my addiction to both tobacco and alcohol. The former is much stronger and undeniably physical; I smoke about a pack of cigarettes a day. The latter is almost entirely psychological (as is the smoking, but I can go without booze and not feel physically thrown off); I drink about three or four beers a day. Come my days off, both cigarettes and alcohol are consumed in greater quantity.
I've never planned to quit drinking. Ever. Cut back, yes, and I do so periodically just to ensure that I'm not really a dipsomaniac. Smoking, on the other hand, is one of those things I've told myself I will eventually stop doing completely, though I also tell myself that if I could curb my nicotine intake to about five gaspers a day, I would never actually quit. Needless to say, I've failed to both quit and cut back, until today.
"Today," of course, means nothing. I've smoked seven cigarettes, and will smoke no more until tomorrow, because I purposely left my Luckies at work and am too lazy to go buy more if a nic fit strikes. I've had one tallboy and half a glass of wine, but there are three unopened bottles in the kitchen, so if I want another drink I can have one. I don't want one, though, because I'm trying to make today become tomorrow, in the sense that I've had my daily limit and must wait. It's an exercise in willpower.
And man, do I fuckin' hate exercises in willpower. Not because of any difficulty, per se, but because contemplating my own ambiguity re: my habits irks the shit out of me. I wish I could just say "fuck it, I'm gonna keep smoking, consequences be damned," or "nope, this is it, as of right now," but I can't. Or won't. I can't tell. You can surely see the quandary I'm in. It's not so much about alcohol or tobacco vs. willpower as determination one way or another.
Say I do quit smoking. Then what? Yeah, I get healthier, but I'm missing out on something I genuinely love. (I don't mind being an addict at all, but like all addicts, I can only say that until my fix is no longer available, and the withdrawals kick in.) It's this kind of thing that gets me, and not being able to choose one way or another just makes it even more frustrating.
Fuck it. I don't want to think about this right now. Viva the intellectual cop-out!
I've never planned to quit drinking. Ever. Cut back, yes, and I do so periodically just to ensure that I'm not really a dipsomaniac. Smoking, on the other hand, is one of those things I've told myself I will eventually stop doing completely, though I also tell myself that if I could curb my nicotine intake to about five gaspers a day, I would never actually quit. Needless to say, I've failed to both quit and cut back, until today.
"Today," of course, means nothing. I've smoked seven cigarettes, and will smoke no more until tomorrow, because I purposely left my Luckies at work and am too lazy to go buy more if a nic fit strikes. I've had one tallboy and half a glass of wine, but there are three unopened bottles in the kitchen, so if I want another drink I can have one. I don't want one, though, because I'm trying to make today become tomorrow, in the sense that I've had my daily limit and must wait. It's an exercise in willpower.
And man, do I fuckin' hate exercises in willpower. Not because of any difficulty, per se, but because contemplating my own ambiguity re: my habits irks the shit out of me. I wish I could just say "fuck it, I'm gonna keep smoking, consequences be damned," or "nope, this is it, as of right now," but I can't. Or won't. I can't tell. You can surely see the quandary I'm in. It's not so much about alcohol or tobacco vs. willpower as determination one way or another.
Say I do quit smoking. Then what? Yeah, I get healthier, but I'm missing out on something I genuinely love. (I don't mind being an addict at all, but like all addicts, I can only say that until my fix is no longer available, and the withdrawals kick in.) It's this kind of thing that gets me, and not being able to choose one way or another just makes it even more frustrating.
Fuck it. I don't want to think about this right now. Viva the intellectual cop-out!
Monday, August 29, 2005
So much to say, but so little energy.
I am very, very tired. I can't fuckin' believe the weekend is over already. I do have a couple remarks before I call it a night, however.
-Michael Haaga, formerly of metal band dead horse (yes, no capitals), has had a new band for a while now. I finally saw them tonight, and, well, as Matt put it, they sound like "the soundtrack to a bad indie film." I just wasn't impressed, even by their dead horse cover. The Riverboat Gamblers, on the other hand, put on one hell of a show, and I saw Christian and Danielle, which made my night, so to speak- being with Matt and Holly really did the trick.
-I can't stop listening to Sentenced during the wee hours, which is pathetic because I only own one of their albums and have only a handful of mp3s.
-I'm working on a new short (and I mean short) fiction piece based on the Finnish suicide pact vignette I posted a few days ago. Once it's done, it'll be posted here, complete with dedication. It's an exercise in sap of the most morbid variety, but God, I love working on it. I've never gotten over the sense of tragic love that was instilled in me (by whom? probably art) years ago.
-Next weekend will be the last one available for non-familial good times for a while, so if you want to hang out, let me know. Forewarning: I will have no money, so either suggest something that requires no cash or be prepared to pony up for beer.
-Michael Haaga, formerly of metal band dead horse (yes, no capitals), has had a new band for a while now. I finally saw them tonight, and, well, as Matt put it, they sound like "the soundtrack to a bad indie film." I just wasn't impressed, even by their dead horse cover. The Riverboat Gamblers, on the other hand, put on one hell of a show, and I saw Christian and Danielle, which made my night, so to speak- being with Matt and Holly really did the trick.
-I can't stop listening to Sentenced during the wee hours, which is pathetic because I only own one of their albums and have only a handful of mp3s.
-I'm working on a new short (and I mean short) fiction piece based on the Finnish suicide pact vignette I posted a few days ago. Once it's done, it'll be posted here, complete with dedication. It's an exercise in sap of the most morbid variety, but God, I love working on it. I've never gotten over the sense of tragic love that was instilled in me (by whom? probably art) years ago.
-Next weekend will be the last one available for non-familial good times for a while, so if you want to hang out, let me know. Forewarning: I will have no money, so either suggest something that requires no cash or be prepared to pony up for beer.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Mixed messages
FOOLISH/HUMOROUS
Last night, after eating at Ming's with Van Cleve, Nicole, and Andy, the three of us went to Helios. I saw Cheyenne for the first time in a while, and also saw Claudia and her boyfriend's band. Folks started getting restless after an hour or so, however, so Eric split and, upon noting how early it was, Andy, Nicole, and I motivated ourselves over to the Proletariat.
Little did we know that trouble was brewing, and not just in the form of a Galaga machine. (I played several games, of course, and did horribly, due to lack of practice and inebriation.) No, the real trouble was that it was karaoke night, and that Andy and I talked ourselves into signing up. He was going to sing "Heartbreak Hotel"; I, "Seasons in the Abyss." As we waited for our turn, I was assaulted by the horrible singing of hipsters doing trendy or kitschy non-hipster songs and a growing sense of dread. What the hell was I thinking? What would I do when I took the stage, aside from talk a lot of shit and wish that I had a death-metal growl?
Thankfully, last call was announced before Andy and I had our chance to make fools of ourselves, and after getting some grub at House of Guys, I came home, watched three episodes of Buffy, and drank some ku ding tea, my dignity still intact.
KILLER
My brother's currently in Norway, and here's an excerpt from an email he just sent me:
Yo dude -
I ran across Matt Pike at Hole in the Sky and mentioned that Lovecraft book,
whereupon he preceded to talk about how kick ass your book was.
This news made my day, since I gave Matt Pike a copy of Axis Mundi Sum the last time I saw High On Fire play, and I wasn't sure if he'd read it or not. Fuckin' A.
Now for the
MISERABLE ADDENDUM
Voivod guitarist Denis D'Amour, AKA Piggy, died Friday night of inoperable colon cancer, which had spread to his liver.
Voivod was one of those bands that nobody I knew growing up listened to, but somehow I heard about them here and there anyway. A few years back, I picked up their Angel Rat record on tape, and never really listened to it. Then, in 2003, they released a new album with the original vocalist, snake, and new bassist Jason Newsted, and I had the chance to go see them play at Numbers. Ever since that spring, I've been a fan of Voivod, and I can say that all the acclaim they earned over the years was well-deserved. It's a shame that Piggy's gone, but at least he left one hell of a legacy.
Last night, after eating at Ming's with Van Cleve, Nicole, and Andy, the three of us went to Helios. I saw Cheyenne for the first time in a while, and also saw Claudia and her boyfriend's band. Folks started getting restless after an hour or so, however, so Eric split and, upon noting how early it was, Andy, Nicole, and I motivated ourselves over to the Proletariat.
Little did we know that trouble was brewing, and not just in the form of a Galaga machine. (I played several games, of course, and did horribly, due to lack of practice and inebriation.) No, the real trouble was that it was karaoke night, and that Andy and I talked ourselves into signing up. He was going to sing "Heartbreak Hotel"; I, "Seasons in the Abyss." As we waited for our turn, I was assaulted by the horrible singing of hipsters doing trendy or kitschy non-hipster songs and a growing sense of dread. What the hell was I thinking? What would I do when I took the stage, aside from talk a lot of shit and wish that I had a death-metal growl?
Thankfully, last call was announced before Andy and I had our chance to make fools of ourselves, and after getting some grub at House of Guys, I came home, watched three episodes of Buffy, and drank some ku ding tea, my dignity still intact.
KILLER
My brother's currently in Norway, and here's an excerpt from an email he just sent me:
Yo dude -
I ran across Matt Pike at Hole in the Sky and mentioned that Lovecraft book,
whereupon he preceded to talk about how kick ass your book was.
This news made my day, since I gave Matt Pike a copy of Axis Mundi Sum the last time I saw High On Fire play, and I wasn't sure if he'd read it or not. Fuckin' A.
Now for the
MISERABLE ADDENDUM
Voivod guitarist Denis D'Amour, AKA Piggy, died Friday night of inoperable colon cancer, which had spread to his liver.
Voivod was one of those bands that nobody I knew growing up listened to, but somehow I heard about them here and there anyway. A few years back, I picked up their Angel Rat record on tape, and never really listened to it. Then, in 2003, they released a new album with the original vocalist, snake, and new bassist Jason Newsted, and I had the chance to go see them play at Numbers. Ever since that spring, I've been a fan of Voivod, and I can say that all the acclaim they earned over the years was well-deserved. It's a shame that Piggy's gone, but at least he left one hell of a legacy.
Friday, August 26, 2005
shitty poem from the bottom of a lazy heart
supermarket
thin anxious crowds
basket full of wine:
3/$9.00.
plus beer, more wine
needle
wax
volume knob
"yeah"
daydream of barstools
Li Po
shining She
smoke and conversation
feet up
toes free
dissolving,
cares:
evanescent
thin anxious crowds
basket full of wine:
3/$9.00.
plus beer, more wine
needle
wax
volume knob
"yeah"
daydream of barstools
Li Po
shining She
smoke and conversation
feet up
toes free
dissolving,
cares:
evanescent
Predawn stasis
It's four AM, and my weekend has begun. Alas, I am currently crippled by an overwhelming desire to do nothing. No, that's not accurate. I want to do something, but I don't know what. About the only thing I can think of that sounds appealing is going over to my brother's place and playing GTA, but since there's a bug in the game, I know I won't be able to complete the only plot-crucial mission available to me right now, so that option ain't so hot. I don't feel like writing. I do feel like drinking, but there's no booze in the house. Read? Maybe. A walk sounds good, at least in theory.
Shit, I guess I'll just smoke some more cigarettes and maybe listen to X. If tonight's like the rest of the nights this week, it'll be dawn before I know it, and then I can occupy myself by walking down to Fiesta and buying beer.
Wait, never mind. The Longest Journey. That should do the trick.
Shit, I guess I'll just smoke some more cigarettes and maybe listen to X. If tonight's like the rest of the nights this week, it'll be dawn before I know it, and then I can occupy myself by walking down to Fiesta and buying beer.
Wait, never mind. The Longest Journey. That should do the trick.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Sacred Acquisitions
Today I bought:
-a hair brush (the first one I've actually purchased since I started growing my hair long two years ago)
-some pens
-a sixer of Lone Star longnecks
-the LP of Om's Variations On A Theme, simply because I, and everyone else, deserves to hear it played loudly on wax
-a Sleep t-shirt, which might not sport the Dopesmoker/Jerusalem art or keywords, but is still a fucking Sleep t-shirt
-and Electric Wizard's newest offering, We Live, which I haven't found for sale in a record store since it came out last year.
Money well spent? Fuck yes.
Will I regret it a few days before my next paycheck? Possibly.
Do I care? Not at all.
-a hair brush (the first one I've actually purchased since I started growing my hair long two years ago)
-some pens
-a sixer of Lone Star longnecks
-the LP of Om's Variations On A Theme, simply because I, and everyone else, deserves to hear it played loudly on wax
-a Sleep t-shirt, which might not sport the Dopesmoker/Jerusalem art or keywords, but is still a fucking Sleep t-shirt
-and Electric Wizard's newest offering, We Live, which I haven't found for sale in a record store since it came out last year.
Money well spent? Fuck yes.
Will I regret it a few days before my next paycheck? Possibly.
Do I care? Not at all.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
"Let's give our lives for this love..."
More pseudo-fiction, heavy on the fiction. Juvenile, possibly, but potent in ways I can't explain. Listen to Sentenced, and see this as an extrapolation thereof. Do not think that suicide is in my future; if it was, it would come unbidden, but it won't.
---
If I ever found Her, I'd propose on the shores of a Finnish lake, blood pumping from the open veins of our arms so that when she said (it doesn't matter), our final minutes would be unspeakably significant.
A day or so thereafter, some poor Finn would find two pale bodies on the crimson-stained shore: whether they were clutched in a final embrace, or separated by some unknown (mutual?) hate, the motive would remain a mystery.
Suffice to say that there would be no doubt about the love we shared, emotionally, psychologically, cellularly.
---
At least all this upbeat (yes, really) Finnish gloom has given me some material for Unheimlich.
---
If I ever found Her, I'd propose on the shores of a Finnish lake, blood pumping from the open veins of our arms so that when she said (it doesn't matter), our final minutes would be unspeakably significant.
A day or so thereafter, some poor Finn would find two pale bodies on the crimson-stained shore: whether they were clutched in a final embrace, or separated by some unknown (mutual?) hate, the motive would remain a mystery.
Suffice to say that there would be no doubt about the love we shared, emotionally, psychologically, cellularly.
---
At least all this upbeat (yes, really) Finnish gloom has given me some material for Unheimlich.
No better than your average blabbermouth.net poster, but...
FUCK YOU, SHARON OSBOURNE. And fuck you, Ozzy, for letting that cunt rule your life.
And fuck everyone else that apparently tried to disrupt Iron Maiden's set at the San Berdoo Ozzfest. Fuck each and every one of you miserable cunts, and cheers to Maiden to soldiering on.
(Go to bwbk.com or blabbermouth.net and scroll back through a few days' worth of news to see what I'm talking about.)
I'm so very glad that I've got Birgit Zacher's background vocals for Sentenced to keep me company now, since there's nobody and nothing else in the world that could do what they do right now.
This is when I need to be at 19713 Westbridge Lane, going through my brother's CD collection, watching the X-Files, surfing the web, drinking coffee, listening to the AC hum, smoking Luckies in the driveway, basking in a different brand of despair.
And fuck everyone else that apparently tried to disrupt Iron Maiden's set at the San Berdoo Ozzfest. Fuck each and every one of you miserable cunts, and cheers to Maiden to soldiering on.
(Go to bwbk.com or blabbermouth.net and scroll back through a few days' worth of news to see what I'm talking about.)
I'm so very glad that I've got Birgit Zacher's background vocals for Sentenced to keep me company now, since there's nobody and nothing else in the world that could do what they do right now.
This is when I need to be at 19713 Westbridge Lane, going through my brother's CD collection, watching the X-Files, surfing the web, drinking coffee, listening to the AC hum, smoking Luckies in the driveway, basking in a different brand of despair.
"I haven't seen a roll job that good since..."
Random pseudo-coworkers (pseudo because they work for the same company, but not in my department or on my shift) have, on at least three occasions, made drug references to me as I stood out back having a cigarette. Since I've been rolling my own for the last couple months- the best skill I ever learned- it's not uncommon for someone to leave the building and find me in the middle of rolling a cigarette. Back in college, doing this also earned the inevitable "hey, man, is that a joint?" comment, and I've gotten a couple of those lately as well. However, having middle-aged folks start discussing their dope-addled pasts out of the blue is a different story altogether.
I don't mind, of course. Such conversations may be slightly banal and nostalgia-tinged, but they're superior to discussions of actual work, or weather, or any of the other things that come up when two relative strangers feel the need to acknowledge each others' existence.
It's time to write, but before I go, dig this, courtesy of Warren Ellis' site: Unusual Otter Attack Kills Dog. Proof that ferrets and their kin are the earth's finest mammals. ALL HAIL THE ANIMAL TRIUMVIRATE THAT SHALL RULE THE EARTH WHEN MAN RENDERS HIMSELF EXTINCT!
I don't mind, of course. Such conversations may be slightly banal and nostalgia-tinged, but they're superior to discussions of actual work, or weather, or any of the other things that come up when two relative strangers feel the need to acknowledge each others' existence.
It's time to write, but before I go, dig this, courtesy of Warren Ellis' site: Unusual Otter Attack Kills Dog. Proof that ferrets and their kin are the earth's finest mammals. ALL HAIL THE ANIMAL TRIUMVIRATE THAT SHALL RULE THE EARTH WHEN MAN RENDERS HIMSELF EXTINCT!
Monday, August 22, 2005
19713
A meandering meditation on memory and place. Incomplete, sloppy, crucial.
---
Hot brick— no, wait, wrong house. A few square feet of indoor/outdoor carpeting, then the concrete walkway that leads to the driveway, also concrete. This is the old place, the one returned to. The concrete’s still hot, no matter where this is. Hot, but not searing, thankfully ribbed here and there with the shadows of pines. The walk to the mailbox isn’t too unpleasant. Nothing there but circulars and a polybagged assortment of coupons.
Back in the house, advertising dumped in the trash can that’s only ever seen lint and dryer sheets and unwanted mail. Don’t even have to turn on the light in the tiny laundry room to know where to chuck the mail. Close the door behind— room’s almost as hot as the garage it opens onto— down the short hall. Three doors, four if you count the one at the end of the hall, but that feels odd since it’s not to one side or another. So four doors— no, five, laundry— four framed paintings and pieces of needlework. Watercolors, harborscapes, a century and a lifetime old. The needlepoints are only as old as the memories of them and all the walls they’ve hung on. Above the wall hangings, a grate breathes cold air.
The door nearest the laundry room is always closed. The next one on that side of the hall, currently the left, tends toward ajar, an almost-reflection of the door directly across from it: open, allowing the sight of porcelain and glass. The bathroom, where another needlepoint hangs, soaking up steam with invisible decay-inducing frequency.
Why back here?
About-face, across the dust-textured linoleum foyer. Brush against the antique sewing machine, which appeared— when? It wasn’t in all the other old places. The living room opens up, ceiling way up there giving comfortable space. Carpet’s clean enough to see the vacuum tracks, but there’s a handful of VHS tapes scattered on the floor by the TV. Not, thankfully, in the slotted light coming in from the right. Only a rattan, bamboo, wicker, no, it’s bamboo, or cane, chair gets to bask in the sun. Dust motes float in and out of the light, presumably. The recliner earns attention now: an upholstered throne, relaxing just to look at. Flanked by books, two, on the floor, and a properly coastered, sweating can of soda on an end table, the recliner emits a siren song, beckoning with the sweet voice of comfort.
No, move on, but grab the soda on the way to the kitchen, through the informal dining room. The linoleum’s cleaner, one stretch of countertop bouldered with crumbs. The breadbox, closed, admits no guilt, but the box of Swiss cake rolls in the cabinet does, although of a different sort. Outside the valanced window the backyard bakes, grass and cracked wood thirsting for water and varnish. But it’s not that bad, not today. The sky isn’t so severely blue that it hurts to lean over the sink and look up at the shreds of clouds overhead.
Turn to the wood-paneled cabinets, drawers. The fridge, badged with almost nothing. Ice from the built-in dispenser, drop into a glass freckled with dried water spots, resuscitate the soda. Open the pantry, minimally inhabited, and drop the empty can— no, wait, the recycling bin’s in the garage. It can wait.
Why back here?
The memories have to be pasted over with nostalgia. Have to be. But they’re not. The thoughtfulness of now happened then, too, right here, leaning against a kitchen counter, on the alcoved toilet of the master bathroom, key in the front door lock. No, it isn’t nostalgia alone holding this return together. The memories hold true— but the question still remains valid. Why back here?
Why not the one east of here, fifteen minutes’ walk in the unglazed sun, home more sharply definitive weeks and months? Why not the dorm rooms in two different states, or the apartments in two countries that grow more foreign every time they’re thought of?
Night now. Coffee and yellow lamplight and the blessed exhalation so high up the wall. The living room, living, spilling proof of its vitality through the closed blinds. The recliner has won the battle of comfort, though there is grave, furious competition from the sofa (armed with pillows and a familiar blue blanket) and even the floor, where the carpet stull looks freshly vacuumed. The floor promises expanse, unbounded horizontal mobility.
The lamp’s shade either came in that hue or bathed in cigarette smoke long ago, before this thenthere herenow. Cigarettes are a rarity in this place, but the living room is not a complete stranger to small glass ashtrays and shanghaied glassed and cups. The driveway, out there in the dark, is where the ashes are usually scattered, and the bushes by the door are a graveyard of uncounted butts. The lamp, back to the lamp, pseudo-wood and brass, ponderous, well-traveled, an old welcome friend.
Midbrain hum of the television conspires with the last sips of cooling coffee and the blanket— wrested from the exhausted couch— to push away more questions. At last:
“Mulder, it’s me.”
---
Hot brick— no, wait, wrong house. A few square feet of indoor/outdoor carpeting, then the concrete walkway that leads to the driveway, also concrete. This is the old place, the one returned to. The concrete’s still hot, no matter where this is. Hot, but not searing, thankfully ribbed here and there with the shadows of pines. The walk to the mailbox isn’t too unpleasant. Nothing there but circulars and a polybagged assortment of coupons.
Back in the house, advertising dumped in the trash can that’s only ever seen lint and dryer sheets and unwanted mail. Don’t even have to turn on the light in the tiny laundry room to know where to chuck the mail. Close the door behind— room’s almost as hot as the garage it opens onto— down the short hall. Three doors, four if you count the one at the end of the hall, but that feels odd since it’s not to one side or another. So four doors— no, five, laundry— four framed paintings and pieces of needlework. Watercolors, harborscapes, a century and a lifetime old. The needlepoints are only as old as the memories of them and all the walls they’ve hung on. Above the wall hangings, a grate breathes cold air.
The door nearest the laundry room is always closed. The next one on that side of the hall, currently the left, tends toward ajar, an almost-reflection of the door directly across from it: open, allowing the sight of porcelain and glass. The bathroom, where another needlepoint hangs, soaking up steam with invisible decay-inducing frequency.
Why back here?
About-face, across the dust-textured linoleum foyer. Brush against the antique sewing machine, which appeared— when? It wasn’t in all the other old places. The living room opens up, ceiling way up there giving comfortable space. Carpet’s clean enough to see the vacuum tracks, but there’s a handful of VHS tapes scattered on the floor by the TV. Not, thankfully, in the slotted light coming in from the right. Only a rattan, bamboo, wicker, no, it’s bamboo, or cane, chair gets to bask in the sun. Dust motes float in and out of the light, presumably. The recliner earns attention now: an upholstered throne, relaxing just to look at. Flanked by books, two, on the floor, and a properly coastered, sweating can of soda on an end table, the recliner emits a siren song, beckoning with the sweet voice of comfort.
No, move on, but grab the soda on the way to the kitchen, through the informal dining room. The linoleum’s cleaner, one stretch of countertop bouldered with crumbs. The breadbox, closed, admits no guilt, but the box of Swiss cake rolls in the cabinet does, although of a different sort. Outside the valanced window the backyard bakes, grass and cracked wood thirsting for water and varnish. But it’s not that bad, not today. The sky isn’t so severely blue that it hurts to lean over the sink and look up at the shreds of clouds overhead.
Turn to the wood-paneled cabinets, drawers. The fridge, badged with almost nothing. Ice from the built-in dispenser, drop into a glass freckled with dried water spots, resuscitate the soda. Open the pantry, minimally inhabited, and drop the empty can— no, wait, the recycling bin’s in the garage. It can wait.
Why back here?
The memories have to be pasted over with nostalgia. Have to be. But they’re not. The thoughtfulness of now happened then, too, right here, leaning against a kitchen counter, on the alcoved toilet of the master bathroom, key in the front door lock. No, it isn’t nostalgia alone holding this return together. The memories hold true— but the question still remains valid. Why back here?
Why not the one east of here, fifteen minutes’ walk in the unglazed sun, home more sharply definitive weeks and months? Why not the dorm rooms in two different states, or the apartments in two countries that grow more foreign every time they’re thought of?
Night now. Coffee and yellow lamplight and the blessed exhalation so high up the wall. The living room, living, spilling proof of its vitality through the closed blinds. The recliner has won the battle of comfort, though there is grave, furious competition from the sofa (armed with pillows and a familiar blue blanket) and even the floor, where the carpet stull looks freshly vacuumed. The floor promises expanse, unbounded horizontal mobility.
The lamp’s shade either came in that hue or bathed in cigarette smoke long ago, before this thenthere herenow. Cigarettes are a rarity in this place, but the living room is not a complete stranger to small glass ashtrays and shanghaied glassed and cups. The driveway, out there in the dark, is where the ashes are usually scattered, and the bushes by the door are a graveyard of uncounted butts. The lamp, back to the lamp, pseudo-wood and brass, ponderous, well-traveled, an old welcome friend.
Midbrain hum of the television conspires with the last sips of cooling coffee and the blanket— wrested from the exhausted couch— to push away more questions. At last:
“Mulder, it’s me.”
Saturday, August 20, 2005
votethroneswherethehellisthatcartridge?
I'm considering voting for Kinky Friedman for Governor of Texas next year. He's a legitimate human being, and while I have no real faith in the political systems of this state, country, or world, it would be a massive leap forward for the Lone Star State to have someone in office that's not a soulless piece of shit.
As usual, I've spent some of my last-few-days-before-payday funds on albums. I picked up Bad Brains' first album, Thrones' Day Late, Dollar Short, which I enjoy a lot more than Sperm Whale, and Ginnungagap's contribution to the Latitudes series that Southern Records is releasing. Of these three albums, the only one I can recommend to just about anyone would be the Bad Brains album. Thrones aren't something that folks who don't like one-man heavy (but not necessarily metal) drum machine/distorted bass/outre electronic weirdness would dig, though I'd be happy to be proved wrong. Ginnungagap might strike fans of folk/acoustic/drone/etc. the right way, but I suspect your average listener wouldn't be down for a quartet of long songs with no vocals.
Somewhere in this house is the replacement cartridge for my turntable, as well as the large-hole adapter for 45s. I remember almost leaving them at the old place, only to put them in a box at the last minute. Which box? Good question.
I hope my brother's having fun in Europe.
As usual, I've spent some of my last-few-days-before-payday funds on albums. I picked up Bad Brains' first album, Thrones' Day Late, Dollar Short, which I enjoy a lot more than Sperm Whale, and Ginnungagap's contribution to the Latitudes series that Southern Records is releasing. Of these three albums, the only one I can recommend to just about anyone would be the Bad Brains album. Thrones aren't something that folks who don't like one-man heavy (but not necessarily metal) drum machine/distorted bass/outre electronic weirdness would dig, though I'd be happy to be proved wrong. Ginnungagap might strike fans of folk/acoustic/drone/etc. the right way, but I suspect your average listener wouldn't be down for a quartet of long songs with no vocals.
Somewhere in this house is the replacement cartridge for my turntable, as well as the large-hole adapter for 45s. I remember almost leaving them at the old place, only to put them in a box at the last minute. Which box? Good question.
I hope my brother's having fun in Europe.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Gimme fried chicken and a volume of Coleridge!
Oh, how meaningful! The Corpse speaks for the first time from his new tomb. Naturally, I feel like there's nothing much to say, although for anyone who's stuck keeping up with me via this site might argue otherwise. For their sake, and my own, because I feel the need to write but don't want to work on Unheimlich, which I updated a couple days ago with twenty pages of new stuff.
Life with Dave has been pretty much as I expected it: quiet and pleasant. I... shit, I don't feel like doing this right now. I'm going to go buy beer and listen to some more Deep Purple. Pardon the lack of insight into my daily life, but hey, beer and records are the most important parts thereof, right?
Life with Dave has been pretty much as I expected it: quiet and pleasant. I... shit, I don't feel like doing this right now. I'm going to go buy beer and listen to some more Deep Purple. Pardon the lack of insight into my daily life, but hey, beer and records are the most important parts thereof, right?
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Si, yo vivo.
Brief update from my brother's computer, since I still have no internet access at the new place. I am now living six blocks down W. Alabama with Dave Mann, and that's going well. I turned twenty-six this past Sunday, and celebrated the event with a minimum of fanfare. I received beer, cigarettes, a cherry pie, and a copy of China Mieville's The Scar, courtesy of Tracey, my brother, Sara, and Andy, respectively. The Scientist also burned me a couple choice albums, which I'm grateful for. I bought myself a couple albums and books too- having Half Price Books pretty much around the corner is gonna be great.
Very little else going on, naturally, but I can say I've gotten more writing done in the past long weekend than I have in weeks. Still not a lot, but it's an improvement, and I like what I'm doing. Oddly enough, while Unheimlich is taking me forever to write, I suspect it'll be the shortest novel I've written thus far.
I'll see y'all when I get back online permanently. Take it easy.
Very little else going on, naturally, but I can say I've gotten more writing done in the past long weekend than I have in weeks. Still not a lot, but it's an improvement, and I like what I'm doing. Oddly enough, while Unheimlich is taking me forever to write, I suspect it'll be the shortest novel I've written thus far.
I'll see y'all when I get back online permanently. Take it easy.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Yep.
The Mann rolled into town last night and I showed him our new digs. He seemed pleased, so all is well. We took care of the oven door and key problems, so now I'm taking my spare twenty minutes to write this and have a beer and a cigarette before I go buy ferret-related goods, pay my phone bill, and acquire a fine sheen of mid-day Houston sweat.
I think I'll name my daughter "Indolence Lassitudia."
Should I ever have one, and should whatever poor female bears the child acquiece, which won't happen.
Anyway, I spent the day before work eating Indian food and shopping for books with Cheyenne. Three for three. Because I got some birthday money from my parents the other day, I did the proper thing and spent almost half of it on books: David Foster Wallace's Everything and More, which I already know I'm completely unqualified to read, John Banville's Shroud, Peter Ackroyd's London: The Biography, which I've been eyeing for some time, and, most pleasantly of all, How To Be Idle by Tom Hodgkinson. While I've never gotten my hands on a copy of the magazine he edits, the Idler, I've read everything available on the website, and through it I've discovered all manners of people and things that share and expound my love for, well, idleness. How To Be Idle is an excellent read, both thematically and stylistically; Mr. Hodgkinson really knows how to convey the humanity of the idler's position, and without resorting to drunken swearing, as I'm prone to doing.
Now I'm waiting around for the Mann to arrive from Florida so I can show him our new apartment. It's been a good day, all in all, if you don't count that ten-hour stretch of work that wedged its way in there.
Anyway, I spent the day before work eating Indian food and shopping for books with Cheyenne. Three for three. Because I got some birthday money from my parents the other day, I did the proper thing and spent almost half of it on books: David Foster Wallace's Everything and More, which I already know I'm completely unqualified to read, John Banville's Shroud, Peter Ackroyd's London: The Biography, which I've been eyeing for some time, and, most pleasantly of all, How To Be Idle by Tom Hodgkinson. While I've never gotten my hands on a copy of the magazine he edits, the Idler, I've read everything available on the website, and through it I've discovered all manners of people and things that share and expound my love for, well, idleness. How To Be Idle is an excellent read, both thematically and stylistically; Mr. Hodgkinson really knows how to convey the humanity of the idler's position, and without resorting to drunken swearing, as I'm prone to doing.
Now I'm waiting around for the Mann to arrive from Florida so I can show him our new apartment. It's been a good day, all in all, if you don't count that ten-hour stretch of work that wedged its way in there.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Exeunt foresight.
I should never have packed, and subsequently moved, my favorite H.P. Lovecraft volume. Thankfully, I do have Thomas Mann's utterly awesome The Magic Mountain at hand, as well as plenty of soy milk, toast, and black currant jam, so going to bed will be no trouble.
Good night, everyone. The next time you realize you'll be going to bed within the hour, find a good book, a good beverage, and admire the yellow lamplight. I will consider such thoughtful responses to domesticity my birthday present from you.
Should you choose to be grotesquely generous, you can help me buy a certain house in the suburbs when the time comes, and then leave me alone 80% of the time once I've moved in, barring extensions of cameraderie on my part.
19713.
Ceaselessly heavy these days.
Good night, everyone. The next time you realize you'll be going to bed within the hour, find a good book, a good beverage, and admire the yellow lamplight. I will consider such thoughtful responses to domesticity my birthday present from you.
Should you choose to be grotesquely generous, you can help me buy a certain house in the suburbs when the time comes, and then leave me alone 80% of the time once I've moved in, barring extensions of cameraderie on my part.
19713.
Ceaselessly heavy these days.
Stop being Philistines. Buy the records I tell you to buy.
New and old stuff. No descriptions. It's all up to you. Wade knee deep in my world.
Hate Eternal- I, Monarch
Nile- Annihilation of the Wicked
The Moors- self-titled
Celtic Frost- Morbid Tales
Fates Warning- Awaken the Guardian
Cathedral- Supernatural Birth Machine
Metallica- Kill 'Em All
Darkthrone- Panzerfaust
Clutch- Clutch
Lorena McKennitt- The Book of Secrets
Elastica- Elastica
Sepultura- Chaos A.D.
Jucifer- War Bird
Sunn O)))- White1
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds- Henry's Dream
Thin Lizzy- Jailbreak
Emperor- Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk
Ulver- Perdition City
Catatonia- Equally Cursed and Blessed
Opeth- My Arms, Your Hearse
Current 93- Calling For Vanished Faces
High On Fire- Blessed Black Wings
Jack Rose- Raag Manifestos
Borknagar- Quintessence
Nest- Woodsmoke
Katatonia- Viva Emptiness
Negura Bunget- N'Crugu Bradului
Agalloch- The Mantle
...and so many, many more.
Hate Eternal- I, Monarch
Nile- Annihilation of the Wicked
The Moors- self-titled
Celtic Frost- Morbid Tales
Fates Warning- Awaken the Guardian
Cathedral- Supernatural Birth Machine
Metallica- Kill 'Em All
Darkthrone- Panzerfaust
Clutch- Clutch
Lorena McKennitt- The Book of Secrets
Elastica- Elastica
Sepultura- Chaos A.D.
Jucifer- War Bird
Sunn O)))- White1
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds- Henry's Dream
Thin Lizzy- Jailbreak
Emperor- Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk
Ulver- Perdition City
Catatonia- Equally Cursed and Blessed
Opeth- My Arms, Your Hearse
Current 93- Calling For Vanished Faces
High On Fire- Blessed Black Wings
Jack Rose- Raag Manifestos
Borknagar- Quintessence
Nest- Woodsmoke
Katatonia- Viva Emptiness
Negura Bunget- N'Crugu Bradului
Agalloch- The Mantle
...and so many, many more.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
The gospel of FUCK IT!
You know what I love? Not giving a fuck. Every week, it seems, I run into one thing or another that should shove me into the oozy, worm-ridden pit of (usually temporary) depression, but I'm pretty good at either sidestepping the shoving force or, in less successful instances, merely ending up knee-deep in depression.
"How do you do it, Dave?" you ask. Simple, dude-brethren and dudette-sistren: I just say FUCK IT. Fuck it, man; it works for just about anything except legitimately heavy events, like deaths of loved ones or a really traumatic break-up or a scathing, painfully true review of your art or an alien abduction or whatever. (You know heavy when it hits you.) However, when you're dealing with just about anything else, saying "fuck it" really can get you back to where you belong, which, in my case, is cruisin' through life in the 1970 GTO Judge of my mind and soul.
Say it, brethren and sistren: FUCK IT!
-Just saw the chick or dude you've got a crush on kissin' someone else? Fuck it! People do what they do, and you'll find someone else soon enough.
-Can't find your car keys? Fuck it! You didn't need to be at work on time anyway.
-Soaked in sweat the minute you step outside? Fuck it! The summer's meant to be hot.
-Out of coffee? Fuck it! Folgers is shitty.
-Spent a few hundred bucks at the local Scientology center, only to find out you've been screwed? Fuck it! Now you know better.
-Woke up with a mysterious bruise or three? Fuck it! Next time you'll drink that sixer sitting down.
-Can't make heads or tails of that Heidegger book you're reading for class? Fuck it! Read it again when it's not four hours before the exam.
And so on. Basically, brethren and sistren, I've found that not taking yourself too seriously really does wonders for your life. Keep it casual, have a laugh at your own expense, and don't sweat anything that doesn't ontologically demand it, and you'll be all right. And I mean "all right," not just "all right."
Of course, I'm not Tony "holy shit, I suckered Trey Azagthoth" Robbins, so there are no guarantees, but on the other hand, you're gettin' this pseudo-philosophical fried gold for free, so fuck it!
This attempt at humorous honesty brought to you by a completely sober (!), but sweat-drenched, D.A. Smith. Y'all take it easy, have a good one, and remember that "yesterday's for mice and gods."
"How do you do it, Dave?" you ask. Simple, dude-brethren and dudette-sistren: I just say FUCK IT. Fuck it, man; it works for just about anything except legitimately heavy events, like deaths of loved ones or a really traumatic break-up or a scathing, painfully true review of your art or an alien abduction or whatever. (You know heavy when it hits you.) However, when you're dealing with just about anything else, saying "fuck it" really can get you back to where you belong, which, in my case, is cruisin' through life in the 1970 GTO Judge of my mind and soul.
Say it, brethren and sistren: FUCK IT!
-Just saw the chick or dude you've got a crush on kissin' someone else? Fuck it! People do what they do, and you'll find someone else soon enough.
-Can't find your car keys? Fuck it! You didn't need to be at work on time anyway.
-Soaked in sweat the minute you step outside? Fuck it! The summer's meant to be hot.
-Out of coffee? Fuck it! Folgers is shitty.
-Spent a few hundred bucks at the local Scientology center, only to find out you've been screwed? Fuck it! Now you know better.
-Woke up with a mysterious bruise or three? Fuck it! Next time you'll drink that sixer sitting down.
-Can't make heads or tails of that Heidegger book you're reading for class? Fuck it! Read it again when it's not four hours before the exam.
And so on. Basically, brethren and sistren, I've found that not taking yourself too seriously really does wonders for your life. Keep it casual, have a laugh at your own expense, and don't sweat anything that doesn't ontologically demand it, and you'll be all right. And I mean "all right," not just "all right."
Of course, I'm not Tony "holy shit, I suckered Trey Azagthoth" Robbins, so there are no guarantees, but on the other hand, you're gettin' this pseudo-philosophical fried gold for free, so fuck it!
This attempt at humorous honesty brought to you by a completely sober (!), but sweat-drenched, D.A. Smith. Y'all take it easy, have a good one, and remember that "yesterday's for mice and gods."
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Procrastinaturi te salutamus
As y'all know, I'm moving next weekend. Thankfully, it's not far, and because my brother will still be in this apartment for a while, I don't have a definite deadline to have everything out by, though I don't want to take too long.
That said, I'm procrastinating. Everyone knows I would. It's what I do; there aren't a lot of things that I feel need to be taken care of immediately, especially when there's some minor diversion to be had. This weekend, such diversions have included:
-sitting
-laying down
-outlining the saga of the Rising Son (a Pat Morita/cursed koi Mississippi epic) with Andy and Kyle
-writing
-drinking beer
-hanging out at various times with Matt, Sara, Andy, Kyle, Andy, Nick, Tania, and my bro
-going to Karie's party
and so forth. It's Sunday afternoon now, and I should be boxing shit up in preparation of borrowing the Last Eve-mobile later and transporting said shit down the street. But I'm not, because I'm gonna write instead. Things will get done in their own time. This I know, and to act otherwise would be an affront to the Tao.
That said, I'm procrastinating. Everyone knows I would. It's what I do; there aren't a lot of things that I feel need to be taken care of immediately, especially when there's some minor diversion to be had. This weekend, such diversions have included:
-sitting
-laying down
-outlining the saga of the Rising Son (a Pat Morita/cursed koi Mississippi epic) with Andy and Kyle
-writing
-drinking beer
-hanging out at various times with Matt, Sara, Andy, Kyle, Andy, Nick, Tania, and my bro
-going to Karie's party
and so forth. It's Sunday afternoon now, and I should be boxing shit up in preparation of borrowing the Last Eve-mobile later and transporting said shit down the street. But I'm not, because I'm gonna write instead. Things will get done in their own time. This I know, and to act otherwise would be an affront to the Tao.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Friday, July 29, 2005
Deposit paid. Rent paid. Lease signed. Electricity hooked up. Money recovered from old man Anderson. New Clutch album (i.e. the only luxury for the next few weeks) purchased. Testicles liquified by mid-afternoon heat. Remaining energy shunted into writing email and full-body tactile study of the couch.
Two weeks and two days until my birthday. Come over, see the new place, listen to records, drink beer, watch Len Bracken's movie. Or don't. I'll turn twenty-six either way. Sunday, August 14. 1316 W. Alabama, apt. A, behind the violin shop.
Why I'm announcing this now, I don't know. Oh, yeah, I do- my brain is fried.
Two weeks and two days until my birthday. Come over, see the new place, listen to records, drink beer, watch Len Bracken's movie. Or don't. I'll turn twenty-six either way. Sunday, August 14. 1316 W. Alabama, apt. A, behind the violin shop.
Why I'm announcing this now, I don't know. Oh, yeah, I do- my brain is fried.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Fuckin' A, I'm in the perfect state to convey my initial impressions of Brant Bjork's new (double- fuckin' double, dude! I can't wait for the fuckin' LP) album Saved By Magic, but then again, I'm also in the perfect state to just sit here and go fuckin' nuts over it without telling y'all anything but to BUY THIS IMMEDIATELY.
So far, the- THE- standout track for me is "Avenida De La Revolucion," which is a musical and lyrical perfect equivalent of All Right, the movie I've been wanting to make for a couple years now with Andy and Dave. If anything, I think I might have to forego the various-artists soundtrack I've had in mind for the movie in favor of a pure Brant Bjork soundtrack. But we'll see, man, we'll see.
Keep your cool, y'all.
So far, the- THE- standout track for me is "Avenida De La Revolucion," which is a musical and lyrical perfect equivalent of All Right, the movie I've been wanting to make for a couple years now with Andy and Dave. If anything, I think I might have to forego the various-artists soundtrack I've had in mind for the movie in favor of a pure Brant Bjork soundtrack. But we'll see, man, we'll see.
Keep your cool, y'all.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Every now and then I wish I had cable, and now is one of those times, because Anthony Bourdain has a new show on the Travel Channel. If there's anything I dig, it's hard-drinking, sarcastic chefs who smoke a lot, write books, and eat still-beating cobra hearts. I owe Matt and Holly for telling me about this dude.
Last night I rented The Battle of Algiers, Suspiria, and Last House on the Left. I've watched the first one, which I recommend to anyone interested in history, colonialism, national independence movements, and terrorism, both revolutionary and state-sponsored. Next on the list is Suspiria, which is one of them there Eye-talian horror pictures by Dario Argento. Last House on the Left, as some of you may know, is Wes Craven's first movie, and from everything I've heard about it over the years, it's a brutal piece of work. I'm curious as to why I rented it, since my threshold for visuals of human suffering has plummeted over the years. I can listen to songs or read books extolling all manners of depravity with virtually no problem, but cinematic representations of people being treated like subhuman shit by other human beings isn't my cup o' coffee. Maybe watching LHOTL is some kind of moral exercise, or maybe I'm just a sick fuck. I'll let you know once I've actually screened it.
If Dr. Long Ghost doesn't make his mischevious presence known soon, I'm gonna have to start ripping the house apart in search of him. I hate when the ferrets disappear, because it just leads to extensive worry.
Last night I rented The Battle of Algiers, Suspiria, and Last House on the Left. I've watched the first one, which I recommend to anyone interested in history, colonialism, national independence movements, and terrorism, both revolutionary and state-sponsored. Next on the list is Suspiria, which is one of them there Eye-talian horror pictures by Dario Argento. Last House on the Left, as some of you may know, is Wes Craven's first movie, and from everything I've heard about it over the years, it's a brutal piece of work. I'm curious as to why I rented it, since my threshold for visuals of human suffering has plummeted over the years. I can listen to songs or read books extolling all manners of depravity with virtually no problem, but cinematic representations of people being treated like subhuman shit by other human beings isn't my cup o' coffee. Maybe watching LHOTL is some kind of moral exercise, or maybe I'm just a sick fuck. I'll let you know once I've actually screened it.
If Dr. Long Ghost doesn't make his mischevious presence known soon, I'm gonna have to start ripping the house apart in search of him. I hate when the ferrets disappear, because it just leads to extensive worry.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
I should be packing, or making phone calls, or something equally important to my impending (and still less than finalized) move, but I'm in a funk. Ergo, I'm typing up this bit of writing I did the other day at work. I have no clue what I'll ever do with it, or if I'll finish it, if that's even likely. Enjoy, if you can.
--
There's that girl with the x-ed out fetuses tattooed across her stomach. She wears midriff-baring shirts so everyone can see just how many abortions she's had. Her eyes are completely dead, all the life in them drained out along with the pseudo-children she's had scraped out of her. But the tattoos prove something still flickers behind those eyes, something ghoulish and full of remembrance.
Some peple say she's been raped four times and had four subsequent abortions. Others say she's just a slut with a sick sense of humor. One guy I know admitted after a long night of vodka sours that he wanted to fuck her and get her pregnant just so she'd have another abortion and get the accompanying tattoo. He thought they were hot, those reddish near-human crescents covered by thick black Xs. I haven't talked to that guy since.
I wonder who else wants to fuck the fetus tattoo girl. Who'll be number five. Who'll make her an ace. Maybe there's only one supplier of abortion fodder, in which case he's on his way to becoming an ace too, although of a different kind.
Another rumor is that she has herself artificially insemenated, then waits a while and goes to the scrape doctor, either because she chickens out or likes killing fetuses. I've never seen her look pregnant, and nobody else I know has either.
Now that I think about it, the fetus tattoo girl is the best conversation piece ever. She's the power source of a rumor mill that cranks out speculation and libel about her and only her. Whenever anyone I know sees her on the street or at the bar, they report back to everyone. The girl has to know that everyone talks about her. She must want it. Nobody gets tattoos of their dead embryonic children on their four-time-pregnant belly if they want to be ignored. But she never seems to acknowledge any of the whispers. She just keeps walking, or drinking beer, or whatever, her colorless eyes focused on something others can't see. Or maybe they're not focused on anything at all.
She's very pretty, by the way. Of course, she'd have to be. You knew she would be. Nobody stares at ugly girls' stomachs, tattoos or not, do they. Of course not. But she's not so gorgeous that people's eyes bulge when they see those tattoos. That wouldn't work either. Too beautiful, and people are shocked to learn you have flaws, are anything less than, well, a beautiful person.
--
--
There's that girl with the x-ed out fetuses tattooed across her stomach. She wears midriff-baring shirts so everyone can see just how many abortions she's had. Her eyes are completely dead, all the life in them drained out along with the pseudo-children she's had scraped out of her. But the tattoos prove something still flickers behind those eyes, something ghoulish and full of remembrance.
Some peple say she's been raped four times and had four subsequent abortions. Others say she's just a slut with a sick sense of humor. One guy I know admitted after a long night of vodka sours that he wanted to fuck her and get her pregnant just so she'd have another abortion and get the accompanying tattoo. He thought they were hot, those reddish near-human crescents covered by thick black Xs. I haven't talked to that guy since.
I wonder who else wants to fuck the fetus tattoo girl. Who'll be number five. Who'll make her an ace. Maybe there's only one supplier of abortion fodder, in which case he's on his way to becoming an ace too, although of a different kind.
Another rumor is that she has herself artificially insemenated, then waits a while and goes to the scrape doctor, either because she chickens out or likes killing fetuses. I've never seen her look pregnant, and nobody else I know has either.
Now that I think about it, the fetus tattoo girl is the best conversation piece ever. She's the power source of a rumor mill that cranks out speculation and libel about her and only her. Whenever anyone I know sees her on the street or at the bar, they report back to everyone. The girl has to know that everyone talks about her. She must want it. Nobody gets tattoos of their dead embryonic children on their four-time-pregnant belly if they want to be ignored. But she never seems to acknowledge any of the whispers. She just keeps walking, or drinking beer, or whatever, her colorless eyes focused on something others can't see. Or maybe they're not focused on anything at all.
She's very pretty, by the way. Of course, she'd have to be. You knew she would be. Nobody stares at ugly girls' stomachs, tattoos or not, do they. Of course not. But she's not so gorgeous that people's eyes bulge when they see those tattoos. That wouldn't work either. Too beautiful, and people are shocked to learn you have flaws, are anything less than, well, a beautiful person.
--
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