Damn, I hope I get into the Voivod show. I really wanna hear "The Multiverse" and "Invisible Planet." I'll know one way or another in a couple hours.

Scott checked out an apartment down on West Alabama yesterday and said it's bad-ass. Deposit's pretty reasonable, the location's excellent (cigarettes right across the street, on the right, and the West Alabama Ice House also across the street, on the left), and it ain't bonebreakingly expensive. Of course, it could turn out to be a financial nightmare if my sorry ass doesn't find a decent job, or make a whole lot from royalties, ASAP.

More reports later.

Scott's work on the cover of my novel is fucking cool. Clean lines, pixel fonts, and a minimal color palette make for a good cover. Aside from buying a couple old Blue Oyster Cult albums and a cheap hardback copy of The Cantos by Ezra Pound and drinking beer, that cover was the highlight of my weekend. I didn't do a whole hell of a lot, really, which was exactly what I wanted.

Voivod's playing tomorrow, but I don't know if I can get into the show since it appears tickets have sold out. I'm gonna try going to Numbers after work and seeing if they've got door tickets. I hope so; for all I know, I won't get the chance to see 'em again. This is definitely my only chance to see Jason Newsted play bass for less than fifty bucks.

Speaking of Newsted, the cover of Metallica's new, and unbelievably poorly-titled, opus, looks like ass. First of all, what kind of album title is "St. Anger"? And why did they use Pushead to do the cover, only to have him draw a fuckin' fist that looks like something from an emo album? Weak.

Same ol' shit. Got the pictures done for the cover of my book, and it should be ready to send off to the publisher within a week or so. Sara's got a couple art openings this evening in Huntsville, so I'll be going up there with my brother. Having never been to this sort of event- the closest I've ever experienced was a sort of lecture/screening thing a couple years ago in Houston, where Matthew Barney spoke and showed a couple of his indescribably odd Cremaster films- tonight should be interesting. Free booze, too, which is cool.

More later.

Another bullshit day of work. My boss, spineless shit that he is, still doesn't know if he's going to renew his lease; if he does, I'm not out of a job, but if he doesn't, it's off to the unemployment line for me. Not that I'd mind collecting unemployment, but shit, I want to know if I should start making trips to Houston to find a new job, since I plan on moving there soon.

On a better note, I picked up Zakk Wylde's/Black Label Society's new album, and so far, it's fuckin' sweet. I got some High on Fire, Voivod, and Black Sabbath stickers for chump change too. Add some beer and some writing, and the evening's already far superior to the day. When you've got a fucking job, though, when ain't that the case?

np: Black Label Society, The Blessed Hellride

I went to my interview at the medical examiner's office today. It was pretty much what I expected: skin-withering fluorescent lights, antiseptic basements, and lots of clean steel. The smell wasn't even that bad.

Then the interviewers took me downstairs to the cooler, and I saw the dead fat man.

He was mostly covered by a sheet, but I saw enough of him to want to high-tail it out of that fucking place ASAP. As a kid, I thought I was morbid, but over the years that's faded away. The dead fat man convinced me that the only corpses I'm fit to deal with are those drawn by Mike Mignola (vide Hellboy), which are desiccated, eyeless, and far more stylish than the one I saw today. Also present was someone in a body bag, and someone else that I avoided looking at. All the pathologists had finished their autopsies for the day, so I didn't get to peer into the innards of murder victims or old women, but frankly, that's fine by me.

In retrospect, all three or so hours of it, I realize that my initial revulsion was exactly that, initial. For all I know, given enough time in the morgue, I could grow accustomed to dead people, and even consider eviscerating them to be nothing out of the ordinary. However, when I walked into that cooler and saw that lifeless mass that used to be a man, I wanted to bolt. At that moment two grand a month- twice what I make now- was hardly tempting, given that I would spend eight to ten hours a day watching corpses come, be cut into precise bits, and go. I knew that when I went in for the interview I would be faced with some strange shit, and to be honest the morgue wasn't much different than what I'd imagined it would be. Nevertheless, that dead fat man, who I believe was wearing blue shorts, made me very, very happy that I'm alive, and, even now, makes me think twice about accepting the job if it's offered to me.

My online moniker takes on a whole new meaning right now, but should anyone think I'm a hypocrite for calling myself the Corpse but being reluctant to pick up dead folks from crime scenes, just read some Hellboy, where the corpses aren't very fresh and are rendered in ink, instead of flesh and blood.

np: sHEAVY, Synchronized

"Your blog's getting weak, dude."

So sayeth my buddy, and I'm inclined to believe him. I really don't know why I bothered starting this thing, since my readership's virtually nil and my life's not very interesting. It ain't gonna sell copies of my novel, either.

Anyway, looks like poverty's got me by the balls again. After I pay the bills this month, I've got very little to live on, but thankfully I ain't paying rent next month. I need to find a new place to live ASAP, so me and my brother are going to Houston tomorrow to find something, preferably cheap and not too shitty. Oh yeah, I've got an interview for an autopsy assistant position tomorrow as well. God only knows what that job will be like, but the pay's way better than my current job, and definitely more likely to provide weird stories.

I'd like to visit Kingsport some day. Since it's not real, I'll have to do it in my dreams or through my writing, which is actually better than reality sometimes. Speaking of reality, time to go eat at Sara's folks' house. Adios for now.

np: Blue Oyster Cult, Agents of Fortune

I finished editing my novel for Invisible College Press this afternoon. I'm gonna give it a quick once-over tomorrow, and then I think I'll be done with it. Thank God.

I wish I could totally buy the alien visitation idea, because it would be heartening to think that the Space Brothers were coming any day to pull mankind out of the shithole we've dug ourselves. On the other hand, if aliens were malicious, the threat of extraterrestrial invasion might give mankind some damned perspective, emphasis on "might." Whatever the case may be, I'm going to remain in the "maybe" camp when it comes to aliens. Or any other belief that claims to give mankind the chance to redeem itself.

np: Megadeth, Rust In Peace

I've spent the past four or so hours editing my novel, and it hasn't been that bad, since I've had the occasional distraction and plenty of drinks. I spent my day at work putting up with some of the most horrendous, unintelligent fuckers imaginable- all women, incidentally, except for one of my coworkers, who's just a pussy- and reading Baudolino, which, so far, is damned good.

One of the main reasons Eco's newest novel interests me is because it deals with Byzantium. After reading an excellent short history of that culture, I can freely admit that they fascinate me, but, admittedly, so do many other things from that time period. I only wish that modern scholars had more primary sources to work with, which would give us a better understanding of that time in history. True, a lot of primary sources are probably dubious, but nevertheless, they beat information that's been passed along for almost 600 years.

Matt Smith and I are envisioning the construction and outfitting of a zeppelin, which will ply the skies in ultimate art deco luxury coupled with sensible hydroponics and state- of-the-art defense systems. The crew will wear classic naval uniforms topped with fezzes, and it will be a perfect example of aero-autonomy, since we will pay no tribute to any nation other than that of the nomadic traveler and the free spirit.

I want to take a shower, but I also want to go straight to bed and read a bit. I know I won't wake up in time to shower, but damn, sleep sounds ideal, especially since I'm listening to one of the greatest sleep-inducing (and not in a bad way) songs ever, Cathedral's "Astral Queen."

A glass of water and bed. That's what I've chosen.

np: Cathedral, Endtyme

I like the fact that I don't really have to mention what time it is, since Blogger (I still stand by my anti-"blog" remarks) timestamps every post I make. Of course, this could also be a liability some day, but since nobody unsavory has come knocking on my door, it's cool.

I spent almost the whole day editing my novel, since Invisible College Press wants it to be a bit shorter. It looks like it's not gonna be too much shorter, but they've also said it's not that important. I'm really happy that they're being so cool about everything, and hope that any other publishers I might have in the future are so accomodating. Here's to ICP, and I ain't talking those miserable chumps known as the Insane Clown Posse. (As if clowns could be anything but insane.)

The barbeque went exceptionally well. Beer flowed like water, conversation was abundant, and I don't think I had to bow to consensus about the music at all over the course of the night. I even got a guarantee of a free Blue Oyster Cult tattoo during the course of the evening, courtesy of Christian at Scorpion Studio. My friend Danielle brought him up, and I discovered he was cool dude, BOC tattoo aside.

All in all, a good weekend. I bought Umberto Eco's newest novel, paid my taxes (like a chump), edited a lot, and, most importantly, spent time with my girlfriend, my brother, and everyone else that means a lot to me. Life is pretty damned good.

np: Agalloch, Pale Folklore

Found out last night that I bear, or will bear when my hair achieves its desired length, a slightly disturbing resemblance to Gregg Allman. Sara was reading some magazine that mentioned Cher's nine-day marriage to Allman, and there was a picture of the dude that looked suspiciously like me: blond hair, sideburns, and goofy look. Sara thinks it was their kid, but having done a little research, it was G.A. hisself, and not his kid, who's apparently a goth-rocker.

I reckon I could bear resemblance to a worse celebrity. Having never listened to the Allman Brothers, but having heard many a good thing about them, I don't really know enough to say if looking like G.A. is a good or bad thing. Personally, he ain't a bad-lookin' dude, so as long as his music doesn't turn out to suck, I won't be too bothered. Beats being called James Dean.

Barbecue this afternoon after work! Beer, music, nice weather, and hopefully some goat. Yee-haw!

Sara got home from Colorado today, so I spent the whole evening with her. Man, it's good to see her again; amazing how much you can miss someone, even if they've only been gone a week. We ate dinner with her folks, flipped channels, and met Matt and Holly for coffee and yogurt. This latter even gave me an opportunity to see how Friday nights in The Woodlands are conducted by rich, understimulated teenagers.

Just imagine your typical suburban area, but more compartmentalized (The Woodlands is constructed in such a way as to give the impression that the various parts of it are somehow distinct from one another) and with a higher number of kids with cars. We're not talking their parents' old heaps or fairly new low/mid-range vehicles, either: think BMWs, SUVs, and the occasional cool car from the '70s, when the kid in question's dad is having a midlife crisis that a new Corvette won't solve. Throw in cell phones, illicit cigarettes (I started smoking at 19, and it's fucking hilarious/pathetic to see 16-year-olds puffing on Swisher Sweets and Marlboro Lights they probably stole from their moms), Starbucks, and a complete lack of anything interesting to do, and you've just begun to envision how I spent my evening.

I feel old, but that didn't bother me too much, because my high school years were considerably different than the ones I watched tonight. I spent my final three years of high school in Venezuela, where I could drink freely and could almost always find something to do, be it going to the movies, hanging out a buddy's house, attending a party thrown by some diplomat's daughter or oil exec's son, and so forth. It was decidedly unlike the life other folks my age had at the time, and in retrospect, I'm so incredibly glad that I wasn't stuck here in Spring back then.

Not that I would've been in the same situation as all the kids I watched tonight. Not having ever been on a very high social level, I would've probably spent my weekends playing Dungeons & Dragons, reading, or something along those lines- cruising in circles through shopping centers would've been out of the question. Sure, I can't say for sure what it would've been like, but I was, and still am, quite a nerd, and would have acted accordingly. I know there's more to The Woodlands than bored rich kids, since suburbia is generally a pretty diverse place once you scratch the surface, but I'll be damned if I'll ever see the quiet homebodies, the smart kids, or the kids whose parents won't mindlessly fund their continual excursions to nowhere. I hope these latter groups turn out all right, and I'm fairly sure they will, because they know that high school's a giant popularity contest held inside a prison, and they're not trying to win it. They just want out of prison, and while there's several ways to go about it, the smart kids will realize that the best way out is in- into their own minds and hearts, into things that matter. The preppies, jocks, and socialites will ultimately fail to become decent human beings, because they mistook the map (high school) for the territory (the totality of life).

I've got to drag my carcass to work tomorrow, so it's time to read a bit of Lovecraft and hit the sack. Good night.


np: Voivod, s/t

[Insert commentary on shitty job here.]

Dr. Donahoo, a professor of mine from Sam Houston State and the only non-friend I showed the manuscript of my novel to, said he'd try to get me a reading at the university once my book was published. How cool is that?

Pretty damn cool, almost as cool as Blue Oyster Cult (damn my lack of an umlaut). BOC and writing go hand in hand.


np: Blue Oyster Cult, Workshop of the Telescopes

I fuckin' hate anything that has to go on paper, except for my book contract. I'm talking about my lease, which may or may not bite me in the ass. I fuckin' hate landlords, but you know who I hate more? Realtors. Fuckin' leeches, man, tappin' homeowners for cash and stabbing renters, like me and my buddies, in the kidneys with a blunt knife. The worst part about realtors is that they're fuckin' everywhere, man. I think they take up more billboard space around Spring than anyone. Fuck all those cunts, and may they rot in hell along with their capitalist ilk. FUCK 'EM ALL!

I'm glad I've got this sweet-ass sHEAVY record to listen to, and a novel to edit, and some Lone Star to drink, else I'd go set fire to a particular building (assuming there weren't any working class folks in there after hours, cleaning up after aging yuppie fucks). Damn, I hate assholes, especially assholes who build careers on being assholes.

Now it's time for some Black Label Society. Zakk Wylde knows how to get the blood flowing. Either BLS or Venom. Hmm. Venom, because they like hell, and that's where all my enemies should end up.

"WITCHING HOUR!"

np: Venom, In League With Satan

After a long day of general physical ill-being, I went home last night, watched tv, asked myself why I'd watched tv, edited my book a bit, and read Harlot's Ghost until I fell asleep. I talked to Sara, and she'll be home by Friday. Thank God, because I'm really starting to miss her. I think her absence, compounded with a day's worth of exhaustion and irrational, amorphous fears about something I couldn't, and still can't, pin down, was what made yesterday so draining.

Thankfully, today looks to be superior to its predecessor.

Well, I lost my credit card last night. I think I left it at Catbirds, which is odd, because I'm good about not letting things like that happen. Oh, wait, I was pretty loaded. Damned celebratory drinking bouts.

Invisible College already sent me a contract, so all I've gotta do is sign it. They want me to do some more editing- fair enough- and give some ideas for the cover, which I'm surprised I even have a say in. I still can't believe I'm getting published. Thanks again, everyone.

So drunk. Too much preliminary celebration= addled brain and stomach ruined by booze and food.

My stomach feels awful.

It looks like my first novel, Axis Mundi Sum, is going to be published by Invisible College Press. Fuckin' A! This is the culmination of all my writing since second grade, and I hope that I can do well enough from the book to quit my job. Holy shit, I don't even know what to say. DAMN!

Here's to everyone- everyone- that's been good to me along the line. You know who you are, dudes. Thank you all.

np: sHEAVY, Synchronized (again)

I've spent the morning reading Charles Bukowski's Women and talking with my brother over cigarettes and coffee. I'm glad he's around, and thinks the way he does, because not only does he offer worthy counterpoints to my often foolish tirades on (insert subject here), but he seems as convinced of humanity's inescapable idiocy as I do. We tend to yell a lot, accusing each other of being uninformed or refusing to accept things as "facts" (which, in my calmer moments, I realize are as nonexistent as nonexistent gets), and so on, but overall, we both tend to admit that neither of us can really make heads or tales of this planet and its so-called dominant species, man. It sure is fun to rant and rave, though.

I'd like to live in an underground house, something like a hobbit hole, with a lot of wide hallways, solar panels, and vents to let cigarette smoke out. Preferably this place would be difficult, if not well-night impossible, for anyone to casually notice; a nice forest would do the trick. That would also allow me to set up a still, so I wouldn't be handing Jim Beam and his crew so much money. Not that I mind supporting Kentucky's finest, but making my own whiskey would be fun. And productive.

Enough rambling. Back to doing nothing!

Some random thoughts:

1. sHEAVY's album Synchronized is fuckin' sweet, even though some people will think they're straight Black Sabbath ripoffs. I dare anyone to tell me the synth bit from the title track is anything but bad-ass, though. Same goes for "The Time Machine."

2. On a similar note, if all the weird realities posited by stoner rock were real, how crazy would life be? Very crazy, if you ask me, and not crazy in a shitty Jefferey Dahmer way, but a bizarre, fairly positive Dave Brock-on-a-gram-of-acid way. Androids, interdimensional warriors, self-aware machines, unspeakable horrors, demons, pot-smoking messiahs... you name it, something that falls under the aegis of "stoner rock" has covered it and made it seem as if the world would be way cooler if it was all at least quasi-literal.

3. Would Robert E. Howard have remained as good as he is if he hadn't offed himself as early as he did? Would Conan have continued to plunder the ancient world on the same scale? Would Texas be a better state for having a writer like REH cling to the mortal coil for another few decades? Would the glaring racism REH espoused have been tempered with age?

4. Alcohol is a great drug, and everyone should tip bartenders far more than the miserly 15%, because bartenders keep the booze coming.

5. Check out this web log, run by a couple buddies of mine. It makes me look downright pleasant at times, they've got great taste in movies (well, usually), and they've got plenty more links than I do. I think that last bit is because I'm lazy about typing in the needed HTML. Their link to the frog found in Kroger canned peas is depressing, not because some dude almost ate a frog, but because that poor amphibian got entombed with vegetables.

6. Disinformation seems to have really gone downhill over the past year or so, since they've stopped posting weird stuff and focused mainly on politics. I guess they exhausted their supply of interesting interviewees and articles a while back, which is a shame. That site introduced me to all sorts of worthwhile thinkin' material for a long time. Come on, dudes, post some more pieces on UFOs or psychedelic time travel or something!

That is all. Go buy this damned sHEAVY album, read some S.T. Coleridge poetry, and do whatever you can to make sure future generations don't have to worry about jobs or politicians. Good night, reader.

I've gotten plenty of sleep this weekend, and it's fuckin' great. The weather's been less than phenomenal- humid as a locker room without the smell, a precursor to the summer- but who cares? I've been holed up in the house, listening to Megadeth's Rust in Peace and sHEAVY's Synchronized and reading Norman Mailer's Harlot's Ghost, and it's a sweet deal. I'm even gonna get a few pages of writing done.

Everyone out there should get a ferret. They're top-notch companions, as long as you're willing to let them run around at will. Take it from me; my ferret, Tim Finnegan, is one of the coolest non-humans I've ever met, and it's because of him that I've included ferrets, along with octopi and crows, in the great Animal Triumvirate that will rule the earth when humanity forcibly excludes itself from the food chain. Cats might just make it too.

Back to writing. Hasta luego, world.


np: sHEAVY, Synchronized

Almost midnight, though I'm sure I'll be awake for several more hours because I took a four-hour nap this evening and I'm pretty energized. I walked down to the park with Matt, Randy, Jay, and Andy a little while ago and spent some time on the swings, which I firmly believe are one of the greatest diversions mankind has ever created, and definitely one of the best playground devices a kid can have access to.

I already miss Sara, and she's been gone less than a day. Apparently she called when I was asleep, which sucks, but I'm sure I'll talk to her tomorrow. Speaking of tomorrow, daylight savings begins, which means the onset of long summer nights- always a good thing, even if "long summer nights" in Texas parlance means "sweltering, mosquito-infested evenings on the porch." I like the porch part, and the heat's even tolerable once eight or nine o'clock rolls around, but mosquitoes (or is that mosquitos?) are just plain shitty. Tomorrow's also Sunday, which is effectively my Saturday.

The light's just right, the music's hitting perfectly, and I can feel the future unfolding out there in the darkness, full of movement and flashes of smeared light and strangers meeting in expansive corners of the mental world. Times like these make me miss being a night owl.

Good night.


np: Ulver, Perdition City

Another Saturday at work, but this one is made worse by my girlfriend having gone to Colorado for the next week. Her grandmother's not doing so well, and it's one of those we-gotta-get-there-soon trips. Poor Sara. It'll be odd to not see her for a week, but my problems aren't anwhere as bad as hers.

I really thought I had something to write here, but I was apparently wrong. Guess I'll go get some breakfast and read At Swim-Two-Birds until the customers start coming in and ruining what could've been as pleasant a morning as can be had when on the clock.

A quick couple words. I've been thinking about the remark I made about a deity looking kindly upon mankind's shittier side, and I want to amend it. I had in mind, naturaliter, the supposedly benevolent monolith of a god most of the western world kowtows to, but if you think about other gods, gods who are essentially just bad-ass humans with weird character quirks and flaws, things change. Gods like those of the Norse, the Greeks, the Hindus, and generally any old native religions, are more tolerable than the god of the monotheists, because said gods don't expect perfection. They themselves, after all, aren't perfect, just cosmically-scaled humans with superpowers. They're often assholes, and downright scary, but shit, they seem a little more worthy of appreciation than YHWH and his crew. It could be that I just don't like the pricks that speak for YHWH. Hard to say, given my constant mental debate on the subject.

On a much better note: if you ever need to chill out and quick, throw on Brant Bjork and the Operators' self-titled album. You'll be laid-back in no time flat.

Here's something interesting to think about. Yeah, I got it from a "conspiracy theory" website, but anyone who thinks that war isn't a conspiracy has very little grasp on what passes for reality. Make of the article what you will.

I really didn't want to end up spending a lot of time spouting off about war with this site o' mine, but let's face it, people are dying for bullshit reasons, and it's not right. Just like 9/11: a whole lot of people were sacrificed on the altar of governmental hegemony, American and otherwise, and that's simply not acceptable. I don't give a shit how many people tell me I'm a paranoid for even admitting the possibility that yes, our government might have let 9/11 happen. I don't give a shit how many people call me un-American because I refuse to support the death of US troops (many of whom will probably die slowly from exposure to depleted uranium) or Iraqis. Despite all my weird thoughts on existence, I still think there are certain things that just aren't right. The manipulation and/or murder of the masses, or even a single man or woman, by the rich and powerful, is one of these things.

Humanity's downright disgusting sometimes, but damn, I just can't turn my back on them. I hope whatever higher power that might be lurking in the firmament, if there is one at all, vindicates me. If not, then fuck him/her/it. Any deity-like being that looks favorably upon mankind's basest instincts isn't worth my time, no matter what "higher plan" it might have brewing.

"Fuck your laws and your ways!"- Spirit Caravan

I'm so bored I could puke. I don't feel like reading, I don't want to smoke, and nothing on the net has caught my eye. I'm hungry, too, but since I'm on an austerity plan for a while, I really can't go grab something to eat.

What I would like to do is drink a lot of beer. A six-pack and my porch is about as close to heaven as I can envision at the moment.

Tentative date for Rob Halford's Houston gig: May 21st. That will fuckin' rule.

Does anyone, especially anyone in the Houston area, know what those billboards that say "NOR RETRAC IN ALVIN" mean? I saw a couple a few weeks ago, googled 'em, and found nothing. I'm still baffled.

Everyone else has already said it, but from what I've read thus far, Iraq's looking a lot like Vietnam, what with the civilian/combatant crossover, the friendly fire, and the general unexpected bloodiness. Fuckin' ridiculous what the human race puts itself through for the sake of assholes. Why do we listen to politicians? When the fuck have they ever done us a favor, or hell, done anything but make us work longer hours and get people killed?

I've got one possible solution for a lot of the world's problems. QUIT YOUR JOB AND STOP VOTING!

I went to Huntsville this evening with Sara to help her shoot slides, only to get there and find out she'd forgotten the keys to her studio. That aside, it wasn't a total waste of time; I got to buy Chesterfields at Huntsville Food Mart #1 and pet a nice dog. Roger at HFM remembered me, and it was really good to see him. He seemed kinda down, though, and said business had been slow, which is a downer. Roger's one of those dudes you never forget, even though, or maybe because, he runs a podunk convenience store in a town known more for its prisons than its university- the kinda dude you immortalize in a book or a movie. I hope everything works out for him, because he deserves it.

I reckon that's about it for now. It's time to write.

np: Voivod, s/t

Last night I think I had a dream about writing. I don't actually remember dreaming, per se, and I haven't written the sort of ridiculously good stuff I think I wrote in the dream, so I'm not sure what really happened at all. Either way, I'm glad that I wrote something, even if it was in a dream, or at least in the potentially false memory of a waking hallucination. It was really good work, too.

On a more factual level, I actually did write last night: a couple more pages of my novel, to be exact. I wanted to keep going, but I knew I'd regret it this morning. This raises an interesting question: how devoted am I to writing? Using last night as an example, it appears that I'm focused enough to come home and hammer out a couple pages after a long day, but not so enthralled that I foresake sleep and the possibility of dragging ass at work. This bothers me a lot, since it implies that work is actually more important to me than I claim it is. Either that, or it was just common sense: if you're tired, sleep. If the truth turns out to be the former, then I'll be thoroughly disgusted with myself. If it's the latter, I'll still be disappointed, because art's far more fun and worthwhile than common sense, as long as you're not in a dangerous situation that art can't extract you from.

End transmission. "This is Voivod mark III! Emergency!"

Home. Now it's just me, a beer, my writing, music, and anyone who catches me on instant messenger.

I finally own a Spirit Caravan album, Elusive Truth, and I can easily say it's some of the best money I've ever spent. I'm not going to review the whole album- it's up to you chumps to go listen to it- but damn, Wino and company write some soulful, heavy shit.

"Love and faith is a trusty steed!"

It took all day for my morning post to get published, so now it seems outdated, so to speak.

30 minutes till I'm outta here, away from idiots and back home where I can fuck off on my own terms. Before I go, check this out.

Ah, Tuesday, essentially my Monday. I'd almost managed to forget how much I dislike work, but then I entered The Woodlands and everything went straight down the tubes. Fuck it, though; my weekend was good enough to make up for a week or so's work, consisting as it did of a trip to Houston with my girlfriend, lots of writing, cleaning the house, and hanging out with Ben, an old buddy of mine from those long-ago days at Hildebrandt Intermediate School and Klein Oak High School.

The sun's shining already, and it's payday. I reckon things could be way worse. Let's just hope I hear back on one of the jobs I applied for soon, so I can figure out if I'm moving to Houston in June. That would make the day way better.