Another weekend has blown by, but at least I spent most of it doing what I felt like doing. Watched a lot of Battlestar Galactica (the new one), Napoleon Dynamite, most of Ghost In The Shell 2, and Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle. All were good, though Napoleon Dynamite was a little too... heavy on idiosyncrasy and backwards middle American weirdness.

I've gotten some writing out of the way, too, though I'm still thrown off by not writing linearly. Time will tell.

BÖC is better than, well, almost anything.

Another work week over. Now it's just me, the screw tape (CD, actually) Kyle left over here a while back, and some Jim Beam. My shitty computer speaks do some interesting things to this shit's bass frequencies, similar to a massively scaled-down version of the oversized subs all you Houstonians are familiar with.

Speaking of trunks, this one car audio company that advertises in the Greensheet routinely sends us 4x6 photos of the trunks they customize. I don't live in the right part of town, but I nevertheless can't wait for the day when I see some dude pop trunk and see the "KEEPIN IT GANGSTA" or "I SEE U WATCHIN" script on the inside of the lid, vibrating to whatever shit it bassing out of the inevitable six 12" subs in their trunk. The aforementioned car audio joint sent us pics of said custom trunks, and it's an endless source of amusement. I dig H-Town.

Back to the screw tapes: listening to them high is the way to go. This shit is the rap equivalent of doom, but with insane posturing. When me and my bro get our '65 Impala, we're gonna have to crank this shit whenever we're not infecting the populace with Brant Bjork or metal.

Enough of this rambling shit.

"Gorillas not dinosaurs."
"I sold 40,000 mixtape messiahs in one month."

P.S. If anyone knows who the fuck chopped "Crazy Train" into that one song, let me know.

The first chunk of Unheimlich material is up, and I'd like any feedback you may have. Andy, I promise I'll sit down with SWV soon and give you a critique.

Work progresses with my next book, albeit in the form of more notes. Having never really tried to write down all thoughts concerning previous novels, this is a new experience, and, thus far, a very useful one. I've got no more than six pages of the actual book done, but I'm not worried. Once it starts pouring out of me, I'll have some solid background and plot ideas at hand, and I won't be flying blind. Assuming I have the patience to type out my varied notes tonight, I'll post some of them to the other commentary site I've created especially for logging Unheimlich material. The link is a couple posts back on this here site, if you're interested.

The situation with my car is rapidly approaching farcical, and frankly, I'm not surprised. Enough of that for now.

I came home tonight to find not only my brother awake, but a good amount of Lone Star in the fridge and folks other than the 1920 regulars sitting around the coffee table. It was pleasant, although everyone split too early for my tastes. I can't blame them, given the hours I keep.

This upcoming weekend will hopefully be inundated with writing, reading, and the like. For now, I'm just going to listen to Venom and wonder where the hell my copy of Castles of Steel has gone.

Take it easy, folks.

Until one minute ago I was unaware that this year is the 400th anniversary of Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quixote. Now that I know this, I have yet another pipe dream of a goal for this year: to actually read said book, in Spanish. My mom gave me a copy a while back, and it's daunting, given my poor Spanish. Hell, I can barely get a few pages into modern Spanish novels before I get frustrated with having to consult the dictionary every twenty seconds. That said, maybe going full-bore with Spanish-language literature is what I need; I definitely want to give it a go. When I visit mis padres in Mexico D.F. in a couple months, I will finally find some fuckin' Borges in the native tongue, and that- if not Don Quixote- will tip the scales.

Or so I hope.

Interesting prognostication re: future of media.

Today: writing.

Phase one of vehicle legalization/optimization is complete. Now I only need to get my inspection, tell the bored, cash-hungry human shells at the courthouse that my car is fit to drive in the eyes of the law, and pay for my registration. Then it's back on the road, hopefully hassle-free.

Other things to do, once that sucking financial chest wound is patched up:

1. Get my pictures developed.
2. Read the photography textbook Albert gave me, take more pictures, and get them developed.
3. Post said pictures online as a prelude to some kind of photo project.
4. Continue work on Unheimlich.
5. Take more walks.
6. Write some more.

And so forth. I want to start shaking ideas out of my system and into some kind of tangible or visible form. The writing's coming along nicely, but lately I've really wanted to take pictures too, partially so I'll have a collection of images to spark further thought.

Anyone want to give me a lot of money?

This isn't fiction, folks.


Stupid fat woman (indicating sandwich): Jared from Subway lost all that weight eating these.

Me: He didn't lose weight by eating meatball subs. Those are one of the unhealthiest things on the menu at Subway.

SFW: Well, thanks for making me feel like a big, fat meatball.

Me: Hey, I'm just telling you the truth.

My brother fired the AK-47 he got me for Christmas earlier this weekend. If I hadn't fired one almost identical to it a while back, I'd be jealous. Well, I still kinda am, since it's my rifle ("THIS IS MY RIFLE. THERE ARE MANY LIKE IT, BUT THIS ONE IS MINE.") and I still haven't had the opportunity to fire it. Oh well; my pops will be back in Texas come February, so my bro and I will head up to the Piney Woods and unleash leaden hell upon that poor tree on my uncle's property in between bouts of conversation and massive coffee consumption.

Everyone wish me luck that my car repairs won't cost me an arm and a leg, or worse.

Peace is watching Bob Ross.

Heavy metal is where it's at, and according to the media, it promotes anti-social behavior, violence, and so on.

The media is right, but not really. Metal inspires thoughts and feelings that no other type of music does, and many of said thoughts/emotions are completely at odds with society as we know it. Does that mean metalheads are fuck-ups?

Of course not. One of metal's greatest attributes is that it doesn't kowtow to the standard social mores. It's often atavistic, primitive, fueled by "barbarian" impulses- impulses that modern society has no place for, at least in the West. Western culture, as glorious as it is, has repressed a good deal of the human experience, and metal does a glorious job of bringing those submerged experiences and urges to the forefront of the consciousness of those who listen to it.

This, according to the media and other suppressive powers, is wrong. People are not supposed to have any affinity with bloodlust, heartfelt paganism or atheism, contempt for the weak and stupid, and so on. Such feelings are contrary to the simultaneously insipid, mealy-mouthed, soulless, conniving, dishonorable nature of Western culture in 2005 A.D.

Bullshit.

Don't get me wrong. I'm pretty far left of liberal in most circumstances, and I still hold to general Christian values. That said, holding these views and listening to metal are, as far as I'm concerned, is not mutually exclusive. Indeed, I find my own constant clash of values to be the hallmark of human experience, pulled as I am between decency towards and utter contempt for my fellow humans. I cannot bring myself to completely love or hate people, which is pretty much how everyone else feels, whether or not they admit it. I don't hesitate to mock people, but I'm also quick to jump to their defense if I feel someone is being unfair towards them.

Anyway, if you're concerned about looking proper in the eyes of people that are, more likely, more stupid than you are, don't listen to metal. If you're not concerned at all, don't listen to metal. Metal isn't an excuse to be a fuckin' asshole. If you want to get off to being a raging prick, join a fraternity or become a cop or politician. Whatever the case, please think for yourself, and don't use your musical tastes as an excuse for any stupidity you may indulge in. Art is a higher power than you, and you have no fucking right to bring it down in any way whatsoever.

Oh yeah, one last thing. If you look down on metal, then chances are you're a fuckin' idiot. Everyone likes some metal, even if they don't have the stones to admit it.

Drunk, concerned, and angry at invisible enemies,

Dave Smith

"Yeah, that's it, man. It's all the music! You know everything is just fine until we just listen to a couple of heavy metal albums. Then we get all fucked up!" -Joe Connelly, "The Stoned Age"

I finally got a ticket for my long past due inspection sticker. What really sucked is that I got pulled over making a beer and cigarette run, only to find out that the store I was going to was closed. Insult to injury.

I'm not in a particularly good mood, and the ticket has nothing to do with it. Fuck.

Force of will and gallons of ku ding tea appear to have my illness on the run. It's still fighting a rearguard action, but this cold can only blow so many bridges and set up so many desperate ambushes before it surrenders.

Tomorrow night Andy and I are going to see Lydia Lunch at the Axiom. I never figured I'd have the chance to hear her speak/rant, especially for a mere six bucks, so I'm excited. If anyone wants to go, call the Axiom and make reservations; otherwise, I doubt you'll get a seat.

I'd like to go to work and make everyone listen to Pig Destroyer all day. It's the closest I can come to pummeling them into submission without using my fists and risking legal action.

Hardcore Literary Solipsist: "Almost anything that can happen in real life is more interesting when it happens in the pages of a book."

D.A. Smith: "I'm only slightly appalled that I agree with you almost one hundred percent."

If I hadn't just spilled half a beer all over myself and my keyboard, I'd work on my novel, but I think I'll eat something and read Castles of Steel, by the ever-engaging Robert K. Massie, instead. Untold thanks to my fellow future zeppelin captain, Matt Smith, for purchasing said book for me.

Blurgh. I don't like Red Bull; it's definitely the shittiest of energy drinks. It tastes exceptionally awful and cough-syrupy when mixed with Jagermeister, but it mixes fairly well with Captain Morgan's, which is one of the shittiest of rums. I'm not saying it's a good combination, but I was out of Rebel Yell and wanted a drink since it's Friday morning, so fuck it.

The problem is, a couple-three of these Captain Jagers have left me feeling horribly shaky and wigged out, which isn't acceptable at all.

A brief foray into the kitchen has revealed that Katie cooked my collard greens for me, so it's time to eat those (and somemeatloaf and toast), drink some green tea, wrap myself in a blanket, and watch the X-Files. Seriously, this weird shite rum/Red Bull mixture feels like some kind of bad street drug that only soul food and television can cure. I'm so glad Katie likes greens and wanted to have me try her recipe, and I'm really glad I don't have work tomorrow. Otherwise, I'd have to crawl into bed hungry, displeased about work, and feeling horribly, horribly dirty.

Don't drink this shit, folks. Ever.

I'm so excited about writing that I almost don't want to.

I'm also quite pleased at the prospect of spending the weekend with Jyn, though you should strip all connotations from the latter part of that statement if you wish to approach a level of accurate perception thereof.

While my attempts to quit smoking this week have failed, I have cut back on the booze. After two weekends- shit, more than that; the last two have merely been socially sanctioned by everyone but teetotallers- of considerable inebriation, I've gotten tired of spending 2/3 of my nonworking days in a dipsomaniacal funk. There's no way I'll quit drinking, but hopefully the six-pack nights and case-deep weekends will become occasions instead of routines.

Fuck, you'd think I was actually trying to get my shit together.

Thanks to Andy, here's my final RPG.net column.

"The rich man's got all the green, but it ain't the kind you smoke." -Brant Bjork, "Automatic Fantastic"

Andy sex RPG.net posted my final Critical Hits column, but for some reason I can't find any reference to it other than the link he provided, which I've lost and will post as soon as I get it back from him.

Having run out of X-Files episodes to watch, at least on DVD, I've spent most of the night/morning reading Iain Sinclair's Landor's Tower. As usual, I'm horribly lost in regards to most of his references, but that's just more reason to read more- not just of the novel, but of everything. He's one arcane, erudite, bottom-feeding bastard, and I love it. In fact, I put the book down to come work on some writing of my own, though this fucking entry has sidetracked me momentarily.

As I sat down to write, the ribs on my left side started to hurt. I feared that my lung had collapsed again, but I blew it off. Should spontaneous pneumothorax occur, you'll all find out by either visiting me in the hospital, getting a phone call, or reading a post-procedural update right here.

Fuck cops, by the way, and fuck the City of Houston. Small-minded cocksuckers, all of them.

Happy New Year, folks. Personally, it means very little to me, although I'll inevitably feel older, more introspective, and possibly more disconnected than ever. I can say that I've got high hopes for deuce-double-aught-five, though. I get to go see my folks in Mexico D.F. with one of my favorite people ever. If all goes well, I'll start writing another novel, write a novella, and find either an agent and/or a publisher for Critical Hits. I will see some bands I like live and meet some quality folks. Whatever happens, I want this year to be more meaningful than 2004. Plenty of shit (and not in the bad sense) went down last year, but fuck me, it was pretty much a massive void. I achieved very little and lost a lot. I need to get my shit together this go-around.

Christ, I had no intention of waxing philosophical, or even thoughtful, on this occasion, but fuck it.

Fuck it.

It's casual.

It's casual, but not that casual.

2005: year of burning temples, flying fingers, ruined bodies, love run amok, empty bottles, and determination.

Fuck yeah.