While I anticipate the oncome of warm weather, I lament the disappearance of the seasons that accomodate listening to Agalloch. Since it's rotten outside, and it's approaching two in the morning, I can listen to them and not feel like the atmosphere is out of place; however, in a month or so, if not less, it'll feel strange putting on an Agalloch album, unless it's fairly late and I'm dreaming of vast, possibly wooded expanses.
As much as I love it, I hate seasonal music. Brant Bjork is not for the winter, and Agalloch is not for the summer. (No, it's not even close to summer, but we're in Texas, folks. Lone Star weather obeys no meteorological laws.)
My God, Agalloch fills a void. Or expands it, depending on how you assess the situation. Sometimes it's both.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
GUH
I'm exhausted. Dunno why, but I am, and enough so to give into the foolish urge to tell everyone on the internet as much. Fuck. Pathetic.
Sara cooked a tasty dinner. We watched the Simpsons. I put on my headphones, listened to Death, and edited Critical Hits. Sara went to the bar. I kept editing and drinking beer. Very quiet, except for the click of ferret nails on hardwood floors and loud metal blaring from the stereo. Now I am typing and listening to Electric Wizard's "Mountains of Mars" on repeat. It's the most relaxing thing I can do and still remain awake.
I hope I didn't leave my Lovecraft books in boxes when I moved in here. If I did, I'm gonna be pissed. Fritz Leiber ain't gonna cut it tonight come Crawl Into Bed And Pulp Out Time.
Looks like Ted's Conan game is gonna kick ass, Gullah willing.
For some reason I signed onto MySpace. Since I haven't done anything with it since joining, I think I'll quit.
I am tired. I do not want to go to work tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.
I've written enough meaningless pap here to last a week, so unless boredom or good times roll around and intervene, consider this your seven-day dose, chumps. I'm off to scrub the taste of Alzheimer's out of my mouth.
I'm exhausted. Dunno why, but I am, and enough so to give into the foolish urge to tell everyone on the internet as much. Fuck. Pathetic.
Sara cooked a tasty dinner. We watched the Simpsons. I put on my headphones, listened to Death, and edited Critical Hits. Sara went to the bar. I kept editing and drinking beer. Very quiet, except for the click of ferret nails on hardwood floors and loud metal blaring from the stereo. Now I am typing and listening to Electric Wizard's "Mountains of Mars" on repeat. It's the most relaxing thing I can do and still remain awake.
I hope I didn't leave my Lovecraft books in boxes when I moved in here. If I did, I'm gonna be pissed. Fritz Leiber ain't gonna cut it tonight come Crawl Into Bed And Pulp Out Time.
Looks like Ted's Conan game is gonna kick ass, Gullah willing.
For some reason I signed onto MySpace. Since I haven't done anything with it since joining, I think I'll quit.
I am tired. I do not want to go to work tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.
I've written enough meaningless pap here to last a week, so unless boredom or good times roll around and intervene, consider this your seven-day dose, chumps. I'm off to scrub the taste of Alzheimer's out of my mouth.
Friday, February 13, 2004
I SUCCUMB
Half an hour left on the clock and nothing to do, so I'm giving in to the banality that is posting the occasional thought. I'll justify it by saying that if I didn't put things here, I'd forget it, but that's not really true. I could just write them in my notebook.
What would a novel written like a black metal album sound like? Not about black metal, but like black metal, the primitive old Darkthrone kind, raw and shrill and utterly lacking in low end. What the hell qualifies as the written equivalent of 'low end,' anyway? How do you write a book that sounds like Transilvanian Hunger? I think I'll go home, listen to Hate Them, and see if I can figure something out. I do know one thing: it wouldn't be a long novel. The literary equivalent of 35 rasping minutes might- might- be 200 pages.
Well, that's all. Time to start counting minutes.
Half an hour left on the clock and nothing to do, so I'm giving in to the banality that is posting the occasional thought. I'll justify it by saying that if I didn't put things here, I'd forget it, but that's not really true. I could just write them in my notebook.
What would a novel written like a black metal album sound like? Not about black metal, but like black metal, the primitive old Darkthrone kind, raw and shrill and utterly lacking in low end. What the hell qualifies as the written equivalent of 'low end,' anyway? How do you write a book that sounds like Transilvanian Hunger? I think I'll go home, listen to Hate Them, and see if I can figure something out. I do know one thing: it wouldn't be a long novel. The literary equivalent of 35 rasping minutes might- might- be 200 pages.
Well, that's all. Time to start counting minutes.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
FINALMENTE
Alguien que hace algo respetable con los servidores que vende la compañia donde trabajo. Incidentemente, hoy tengo un libro de Borges conmigo.
Alguien que hace algo respetable con los servidores que vende la compañia donde trabajo. Incidentemente, hoy tengo un libro de Borges conmigo.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
(I notice that I've long since forgotten to title each entry, so...)
IF IT WAS 80 DEGREES AND SUNNY...
This would've been one sweet-ass evening. As it stands, it's still rad.
Got a case of Lone Star on the way home from work. Got home and found all the records I've recently ordered, along with Sara in a good mood. Threw on the Probot disc, dug on the visuals of the two Brant Bjork albums (the Jalamanta vinyl includes a cover of "Take Me Away," a bad-ass song by the almighty Blue Oyster Cult, which is why I went for it), drank some beers, shot the breeze with the neighbor, and ate dinner/talked with Sara. Fuckin' A, dudes.
Fuckin' A.
IF IT WAS 80 DEGREES AND SUNNY...
This would've been one sweet-ass evening. As it stands, it's still rad.
Got a case of Lone Star on the way home from work. Got home and found all the records I've recently ordered, along with Sara in a good mood. Threw on the Probot disc, dug on the visuals of the two Brant Bjork albums (the Jalamanta vinyl includes a cover of "Take Me Away," a bad-ass song by the almighty Blue Oyster Cult, which is why I went for it), drank some beers, shot the breeze with the neighbor, and ate dinner/talked with Sara. Fuckin' A, dudes.
Fuckin' A.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Finally got a car: a nightmarishly ugly, but strangely pleasant to drive, 1986 Mustang. Who'd have thunk it?
The new RPG.net column is up right here. Read up, chumps.
I'm fixin' to get off the clock, so I'm keeping this short. Everyone take it easy, and if you're in Houston this March, save some cash to see Brant Bjork and the Bros. Good times, folks.
The new RPG.net column is up right here. Read up, chumps.
I'm fixin' to get off the clock, so I'm keeping this short. Everyone take it easy, and if you're in Houston this March, save some cash to see Brant Bjork and the Bros. Good times, folks.
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