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.

Throw in cigarettes and a couple beers, and this is the depressing truth about how I live.

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.

I got the apartment down the street. Talk about a load off my mind. Now I get to cripple my savings account by paying the deposit and rent within a couple days of each other.

Fuck it.

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.

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.

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.

--

Tonight I went to Helios- which I've concluded I don't care for very much- to see Cheyenne. She wasn't there; she'd left early because she was sick. That sucked.

Then I went to Poison Girl, talked to a few folks- one of whom I knew from my EV1 days- and drank in peace. Disappointment vanished in a haze of thought and beer.

Now it's conversation with one of my favorite people, Sentenced, and a last beer/cigarette before I retire for the night.

Thanks for being who you are, Shari. To you I dedicate the awesome instrumental/intro "Kaamos" by Sentenced.

Checked out another apartment today, since I have some doubts about the other one. The new one looks promising; now I just gotta get my application in and find out whether or not I'm enough of an upstanding consumer to get it.

Shiner Summer Stock, one of my favorite seasonal beers, is now Shiner Kölsch. The beer's the same, but the name and label have changed, much as the standard Shiner Bock label has. It's classy-looking, though I always liked the old label and name. I wonder what prompted the switch to the Teutonic nomenclature.

I hope the new Brant Bjork album arrives this weekend.

Lemmy speaks the truth, as he always has, only this time, he's got Ozzy helping out. This song always puts me in my place.

Motörhead, "I Ain't No Nice Guy"

When I was young I was the nicest guy I knew
I thought I was the chosen one
But time went by and I found out a thing or two
My shine wore off as time wore on
I thought that I was living out the perfect life
But in the lonely hours when the truth begins to bite
I thought about the times when I turned my back & stalled
I ain't no nice guy after all

When I was young I was the only game in town
I thought I had it down for sure,
But time went by and I was lost in what I found
The reasons blurred, the way unsure
I thought that I was living life the only way
But as I saw that life was more than day to day
I turned around, I read the writing on the wall

I ain't no nice guy after all
I ain't no nice guy after all

In all the years you spend between your birth and death
You find there's lots of times you should have saved your breath
It comes as quite a shock when that trip leads to fall

First of all, please make sure you read the post prior to this one. If you read my running commentary, either regularly or not, it applies to you, whether or not I know you. (But mainly to those I know, per the flow of logic.)

Anyway: more album covers of bands I love and have been listening to, and that you should check out. I'm gonna take a cue from my beloved brother and tell y'all to buy the fuckin' albums, since a) I can't burn 'em for you even if I wanted to and b) these folks deserve the dough you'll be throwing their way.

Really, I know a good chunk of y'all could give a fuck about my musical tastes, but I'm only posting stuff anyone with half a brain and a legitimate taste for music would enjoy. (This time, at least.)

Once again, I love all y'all.

I was gonna type out a list of everyone that means the world to me, but I'm lazy, so I'll just say this:

I love all y'all. You know who you are; if you don't, go ahead and include yourself in the list. Don't ever forget that on top of your folks and family, there's at least one other dude out there who loves you and will be eternally grateful for knowing you. Be you an old friend, a new friend, an ex, a family member, whatever: Dave Smith is honored to know you. You've done more for him than you'll ever know, and he hopes to be able to return the favor someday. If he already has, trust him when he says he owes you another one.

I'm six kinda pleased to be alive, and I owe it to y'all. If you ever take any advice from me, let it be this: keep thinkin', and take it easy.

All the rain as of late makes me want to stay home, read, drink coffee, and listen to














this.

For being broke on a Tuesday night, I sure am enjoying life. Got off work early and went and had beers with Josh at Helios, where I saw the lovely and fascinating Cheyenne. Stayed past last call for a bit, had a kir royale, was kicked out, along with other miscreants, by a tired Argentine. Walked home in the heat, which was fantastic in the way only a drunken reluctant lover of H-town can understand. Got home, had a cold glass of water, said hello to Dr. Long Ghost and Mr. Finnegan, and read an email saying that my copy of the new Brant Bjork album had been shipped. Tossed Incarnate by The Obsessed on the turntable, and here I am.

All right.

Ulver: Wolves with broken wooden halos, grown lean and cunning in the long Norwegian winters, treading upon the shrouded corpses of the popes and emperors of music. Who knows what the Romuluses and Remuses that suckle at the wolf's teat will become.

Purchase Blood Inside immediately.

Looks like I found my next apartment. It's only a few blocks from my current one, has hardwood floors, and is incredibly cheap, probably because the landlord is 92 years old and has long since given up paying attention to market prices. I'm not complaining, and I hope Dave Mann won't, either.

There is, of course, bad news, which is that I'm broke again, a mere three days after getting paid. Ah, the vicissitudes of modern life.

I hope I get to see Cheyenne tonight.

Today was, oddly enough, different than most workdays, but not in any kind of really interesting way for the most part. I got a substantially heftier paycheck than usual, thanks to the monthly bonus and holiday overtime. It was a quite welcome addition to my bank account, seeing as how the electricity bill was revoltingly high last month and I'm fixing to move next month.

It also rained enough to flood West Alabama Street and much of Montrose, which resulted in me having to walk several blocks in water that was often knee-high to meet Nicole for a ride to work. I don't even want to imagine what kind of vile shit- possibly literally- made contact with my flesh. That said, at least it wasn't 2001, when I lived on the ground floor and spent a frantic hour with my girlfriend at the time getting all of our possessions and her cats out of harm's reach. Instead, I showed up at work looking like my usual shabby self- I didn't slog through Houston's liquid nightmare offerings in my work clothes, though the thought of looking like bedraggled mud-caked hell in front of management is satisfying- and made it through the night, though I got raped in terms of payable hours. I talked to Cheyenne on the phone, which made my night, and got a little work done on the project Andy and I have been brainstorming over. Screenplays are much easier to write by hand than novels, and the page count is an excellent source of false gratification.

I've also decided that as well as early '70s muscle cars, I like certain mid-80s vehicles, namely the Monte Carlo SS. Gross, I know, but a cool kinda gross. I blame the Blue Bastard.

Hope all is well with y'all.

Christ, I hate thinking about time. When I do, I realize that I've achieved virtually nothing in the past year and a half. I guess this is what being an adult is to 99.6% of the world.

Fuck it. I'm gonna go write and imbibe something alcoholic. By which I mean I'm going to kidnap some chump from an after-hours joint, liquefy him, and serve him on the rocks, garnished with lime and Tabasco sauce.

"We dream we're the people in songs..." -Alan Moore

In case any of you didn't know, I'm a hopeless romantic. Not in the usual sense of the word, either. I am a Hopeless. Romantic. Hopeless does not modify Romantic.

There are worse fates, and I fear that I may have delivered myself into the hands of such a fate a mere two minutes ago. Of course, if all goes well...

Don't forget that if you're reading this, I may very well have a slightly older post to check out as well. I'm good at writing multiple things in one evening.

Wu-wei. The "path." Complete inability to not stray. Alcohol. Dark-haired hope. Spiral-bound self-written history lessons. Glorious brown glow of tobacco. Her. Threat of tears. Retrospect. Starving. Contentment with the now.

"Seventeen is like gold." -Alan Moore

Last week I mentioned to a few folks that I'd never been described as "fun." Mind you, not being considered "fun" doesn't bother me. To quote Waking Life, "everybody knows fun rules," but I've never even thought of myself as a "fun" guy, despite thinking that I know how to have fun, if only in often atypical ways. I may be funny, yeah, and a purveyor/appreciatior of good times, but fun? Shit, I dunno.

Yesterday, however, I was told by someone whose stature increases steadily in my eyes that I was "more fun than a barrel of monkeys." Not only did this make me reconsider the concept of fun, but it made ye olde Corpse's sluggish, nicotine- and booze-addled heart leap, in a highly unexpected way.

I never fail to be impressed by a) her and b) her. Oh, and c) my ability to type far better than any drunken person aside from Faulkner or Bukowski has the right to. Of course, for all I know, Faulkner wrote by hand, and Bukowski might've puked on half his manuscripts, so I may be in the lead. Heh.

Seriously, and this is just pure aorta/brain-throb glee: HER!

I will, for once, put aside doubt and revel in what I've got going for me right now. Xie xie, Lao Tzu, xie xie, Tao, and (probably most importantly) xie xie, liao bu qi.

(Pardon my horrible use of English/Pinyin online dictionaries, lack of tonal marks, and drunken happiness. Fuck that- pardon the first two only.)

Gratuitously taken from the Southern Lord forum that I frequent, the 188 Rules of Doom Metal. Enjoy.

1. Life is too short to experience all that is good.
2. Life is too long to enjoy living.
3. Every day is a funeral.
4. Do not wear anything but flat black clothes and combat boots.
5. Do not smile
6. Do not laugh.
7. Death Doom is not slow Death Metal, unless you think it is.
8. Doom Metal is not Death Metal with a violin.
9. No matter what anyone says, that vocalist is not the Cookie Monster.
10. I said "No laughing!!!"
11. No matter what anyone says, you're not a Goth.
12. While a black teddy bear with a broken heart hanging from a noose on your windshield may very well symbolize your tortured inner nature, it's not very metal.
13. It is acceptable to listen to non-doomy music if you play it at 1/4 of its normal tempo.
14. You may complain about an album's production unless it is a Thergothon release.
15. You will own Thergothon's 'Stream From The Heavens', but never listen to it because of the bad sound quality.
16. Spend years looking for that extremly rare limited to 500 copies vinyl only release that you must own, then listen to it twice in your lifetime.
17. You must never admit to liking a "fast part" on a doom CD, unless it is Disembowelment.
18. Watch incomprehensible cult movies with no plot, storyline or anything remotely interesting happening because "it's doomy!".
19. You can make fun of Nazis unless the said Nazi is Fucked up Mad Max. Then you can overlook his beliefs because his "music was good".
20. Album covers must contain one of the following: Ruins, Spirits in agony, A cemetary sculpture of an angel, or A pretty painting of heaven...
21. But you're not a Goth!
22. As a Doomster, you're too apathetic to engage in silly music genre debates.
23. Unless someone calls you Gothic, then it's on.
24. Always let your goat listen first to a new CD, so she may consider if it's good or bad for you.
25. Kitty cats are not appropriate pets unless they're black and depressed.
26. You must appreciate folk polka metal because polka is dark, emotional and "...really doomier than Serenades when you think about it."
27. Consider yourself open-minded about music.
28. Consider all other metal narrow-minded, especially "True Norwegian Black Metal!"
29. Ignore the contradiction of the above two rules.
30. If you're a traditional doom fan, you must complain endlessly about My Dying Bride, and call all the non-trad fans "Gothic Fags." Also complain about Droning doom because it's not music.
31. If you’re a Sludge Doom fan moan that Trad doom is really Heavy Rock.
32. If you’re a Stoner Doom Fan, you are not paranoid. They are all out to get you.
33. If you're a Doom/Death fan, you must complain endlessly about Droning Doom because it's even slower and more boring than what you listen to. Also complain about trad-doom because half the vocalists sound like they've been castrated.
34. If you're a fan of Droning Doom, you're probably too busy zoning on the droning to be reading this list, or to even care.
35. Remember Rule 22. You do not engage in silly music genre debates.
36. If someone says Doom-Metal is a mix between Death-Metal and Gothic-Metal, kick him in the nuts.
37. Unless you're fixated on an Earth CD at the time, then you probably didn't hear a word he just said.
38. If you find yourself describing your favourite piece of music as "Joyful," "A bright ray of sunshine," or "the super happy fun song," there's a slight chance that it's not Doom.
39. Doom Reviews containing descriptions such as "Crushing," "Monolithic," "Depressive," and "Suicidal" are good reviews... and yes, these are complimentary terms!
40. If you feel down, then listen to some truly soul crushing, suicidal doom to cheer you up.
41. If you are Doom, you are probably from Finland or Yorkshire.
42. Even if you're not Doom, if you're from Finland, you're probably still a miserable bastard.
43. No matter how slow you play, you can always play slower.
44. If there are more than 30 beats per minute, the music is too fast.
45. If you play anything above 30 bpm, you are probably Pop music, unless you are Disembowelment.
46. If Skepticism suddenly decides to play something above 30 bpm, then we will make an exception for them too, but this is very unlikely.
47. Make sure to include such words as "Emptiness," "Dying," "Solitude," "Cold," "Night," "Despair," "Demon," "Caress," "Darkness," and "Shadows" in your band name, song titles, and lyrics. Arrange them in faux poetic ways such as "In the Cold Demon's Caress, I lay Dying," "Dark Emptiness," "In Demonic Shadows, I Despair." "Empty Shadows of Death," and one that every True Doomster should relate to: "Nights of Solitude."
48. Only the first two albums of a band are True™ doom.
49. Disband after the first album or mini-cd and you're CULT!
50. Never let your audience know if your new song is an instrumental or not until you really have to. Give them at least 3 minutes to guess how the song will turn out.
51. Record 6 songs that span over the length of 2 full CDs. Obviously intro's, outro's and short intermezzo's (on both disks) are included in the song count.
52. You must make fun of Black Metal musicians taking pictures in the woods. Promptly afterwards you will have your band-mate follow you into a thicket by the local cemetery with a 35mm camera for "band shots".
53. True™ doom lyrical content must include references to: a relative, spouse, fiancée or pet dying, or abstract explorations of getting dumped by your girlfriend.
54. If you reference all of the above in a single song, you qualify for "Sooper Dooper Pooper Scooper True Cult Doom" status. An example of this would be: "Rover has passed into the frozen wastes of Kadath, and my heart has been rent from my ribcage by thee, temptress bitch."
55. There have to be at least 3 different songs with the same name in your repertoire. (You may put a number after it if you want, such as "Rover, My Temptress Bitch MXVIII.")
56. While practicing your death metal "Cookie Monster" vocals, resist the temptation to write songs about how much the chocolate chips long to join the sugary dough for one last dip into the pond of milk white purity before being thrown into the gaping maw of a ravenous muppet.
57. Most importantly, and I can't stress this enough: Be from Finland!
58. A Funeral Doom riff should last a minimum of 15 seconds, and repeat itself for at least 16 minutes.
59. You know you are a funeral doomster when you find yourself saying, “Black Sabbath just play too fast.”
60. If you’re a traditional doomster, rip off Black Sabbath, Saint Vitus, Obsessed, Pagan Altar and Pentagram, then claim any similarity is pure coincidence.
61. Mourn the loss of Paradise Lost a once great band.
62. Violinists are not necessarily gay.
63. The mark of good funeral doom is whether you can get a beer from the fridge in the time between two snare hits.
64. True doomsters are too depressed to go to band practice.
65. Use ? in your song titles
66. Doomsters are not kvlt, tr00, gr1m or pretentious.
67. Hide your Darkthrone records when one of your doomed mates visits.
68. Any song shorter than 8 minutes is an 'Intro'.
69. Doom bands should not be popular, unless they're disbanded, then they are CULT.
70. Don't go out, unless the weather's cold and dreary.
71. Funerals are your favourite pastime.
72. State explicitly that doom bands are interesting and varied, then record a song with one riff the entire 20minutes of the track
73. If you are no longer doom, say you've "progressed" and deny that any previous doom recording even existed.
74. Sing along in the bath to your favourite doom band, then deny it because your too "depressed" to sing to yourself in the bath
75. Doomsters listen to a variety of music, are able to appreciate many music forms, and laugh at the shit non-doomsters listen to.
76. All doom bands are pioneering even if they sounds like every other doom band
77. Keep tours to a minimum, if people want to see you they have to be cult enough to travel at least 20,000miles
78. If more than 20 people ever come to one of your shows, you have to break up or else you're a sell-out
79. Name your demos and albums with strange titles like "Cthulghy Hyoyrto Skyththte", or "Jhihhee Eliidhhddeenn Fffffhhhhttthjhjuuuuu". By doing this, your band will look really avant garde, progressive and doom.
80. Be tired and indifferent during interviews. Your answers should contain at least 10 long-structured sentences. Otherwise, you are just a punk rock prick.
81. Doom musicians don't move at gigs. If they move, they are not doom.
82. Same applies to the audience.
83. Do not update your band’s website.
84. If your fellow-band members are manic-depressive, make sure you quit before they reach the manic phase!
85. Never respond to e-mails, especially if they are asking to buy your CD.
86. Don't release any of your tracks on the internet, so people can't find out how you sound. And when do finally release your album, release it in an obscure label from Australia that refuses to distribute any of the 500 printed copies.
87. If possible, do not release anything when you're band is still together. After you're disbanded release your abominable rehearsal tapes and sell them with outrageous prices.
88. Artwork must contain pink or purple!
89. Make really happy music and sing about always looking on the bright side of life... Eric Idle is doom?… Life's a bowl of shit, when you look at it!
90. If someone can recognize one of your band members in a picture, you are not doom.
91. Do not betray your favourite band by wearing one of their T-Shirts. If someone sees it and listens to them, they will become popular and hence commercial sell-out shit.
92. Re-re-re-re-release your demo on tape or vinyl, but not on cd, and make sure no one ever will be able to buy it
93. You know when you are listening to doom when you’re out cycling and old ladies walk past you.
94. You know when you are listening to doom when that snail jumps out in front of you.
95. The mark of a good Funeral Doom album is to put it on, go to sleep and find it's still playing when you wake up.
96. Make sure your booklet don't contain lyrics or information of any sort.
97. Doom should sound like being alone, naked, with no food, or water, in the middle of a terrible blizzard, with a lot of hatred and pain in your heart, while being on drugs. If it doesn’t go see a doctor of doom.
98. Finland, Finland, Finland, the country where I want to be, pony trekking or camping, or just watching TV. Finland, Finland, Finland, it's the country for me!
99. Always keep the curtains closed, use candles is you must have light.
100. Your first breath is the beginning of your death.
101. Go drown yourself in a stream of mourn.
102. Never let anybody else contribute to a list of Doom Rules
103. Life is full of suffering, a seemingly endless path in the blackest darkness imaginable, which stops suddenly and you fall into even blacker nothingness
104. Emptiness rules
105. Skepticism is spelt with a ‘K’
106. Happiness is a worthless electrical illusion created by pointless peasants
107. Time is what happens between mistakes
108. Life is what happens to you if you don't die soon enough, but don’t panic, life is terminal.
109. Nothing is the answer to everything
110. People are cannibals who eat themselves in order to sustain themselves
111. Doom is a state of mind, a dark blue, blanket grey, black state of mind
112. You are born, you chug alone on rails, you pause at stations to let people on and off and you terminate; and there is nothing you can do about it… and that is the shape of despair.
113. Life is a fruitless search for a answer that doesn’t exist that seems to last longer than a Doom song but is actually over in a flash
114. Life is loneliness in a world of 6 billion people.
115. In all things, be alone.
116. Doomsters like to moan about life
117. Everything is bullshit and fake, and your dreams are insignificant.
118. Take each day at a time and discard yesterday's burdens or they will crush you when you add them to tomorrows
119. Life is a sexually transmitted disease
120. Life is pop-up hell
121. Life... don't talk to me about life
122. Life is a JOKE... remember, NO LAUGHING!!
123. Nothing is real
124. Ambition is like smoking face down in bed
125. Happiness is keeping busy and not thinking too much
126. Happiness is about being happy that you're not sad about being unhappy.
127. The music business is a monkey's arse.
128. Judge a person by their record collection.
129. There is no problem that cannot be solved by real ale
130. Love is a poisoned chalice and hate is the antidote
131. Life is like a chocolate box, some do without, others have plenty. It sticks in my throat, my stomach's in knots, while your box is so full, mine's perpetually empty
132. Hell is other people
133. A sunset is only electromagnetic radiation whose photons register in you eye sensors. Beauty is an illusion invented by postcard salesmen
134. Fail young, fail often
135. Avoid moments of clarity
136. Look forward to your last breath and the pleasure of that final disappointment and say “Is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing, let's break out the booze and have a ball, if that's all there is”.
137. Never brush your teeth with a Noothgrush
138. Living is pointless, death is pointless, talking to others is pointless, so what’s my point?
139. Life is like a bookcase and happiness is candy on the top shelf and you're a four year old who can't reach. Just don’t be surprised when the whole lot crashes down on you when you climb up to reach it and the candy falls further out of reach… and then you die.
140. Be content to vanish into nothingness when you die for no show, however good, could conceivably be good forever
141. Reality is an internal representation, so don’t worry about it
142. Worry about your next meal instead of enjoying the one you have.
143. In all things be drunk.
144. Doomsters don’t take ‘Speed’, they take ‘Slow’
145. Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
146. Life is a 100 year mortgage that you can’t afford the payments on.
147. When your creativity have dried up and shrivelled like an old prune, sign up with Century Media and abandon Doom altogether and go MTV friendly, but still cite My Dying Bride as one of your major influences.
148. Insisting your latest album is the bleakest, and most haunting your band has ever recorded, even if it’s your debut.
149. Drone doomsters do go OooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNnnn... nnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnNNNNNN... NNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn, sometimes.
150. Mournful Congregation would like to thank depression, pain, death, suicide, distain, misery, sadness, gloom dejection, melancholia, desolation, despondency, discouragement, downheartedness, grief, suffering distress, anguish, torture, agony, torment woe, sorrow, Wretchedness, unhappiness, affliction, displeasure, misfortune, lamentation, mourning, solitude, solemnity and Doom.... and so should you.
151. Generally speaking Sludge Doomsters are angry, Gothic doomsters are sad, funeral doomsters are barely breathing, death doomsters are dirty, drunk and dribbling, Stoner Doomsters don't care, drone doomsters are out of it and traditional Doomsters are permanently pissed off, mainly with other doomsters.
152. Have at least one goat-related song on your new album
153. If you are from England become sad and embittered that no-one gives two fucks about you, your band or your label, because in England nobody care about anything except their own little stash, nobody that is except those 30 people odd people who do turn up to see you play, and they are worth more than a stadium full of fair weather trend following wankers.
154. If half the audience hasn't left out of frustration before you've finished your first note, then you're playing too fast.
155. Trad Doom bands have to have shit singers, it's the law.
156. No one else understands why a 2 note song is good, but you don't care.
157. Impaled Nazarene are Doom because of the shear number of goats involved.
158. Make sure your drummer's not awake during gigs. After the gig, wake him up and tell him he played fantastic.
159. Look very bored during parties. If anyone asks, say you amuse yourself.
160. Debuts are good. Follow-ups are repetition and sell-out.
161. Make fun of punks. remember though, you are open-minded.
162. Trust me, your last gig was aweful.
163. Blame others for your lack of success if success is what you seek (you know who you are)
164. Make sure at least one member of your band owns a record label otherwise you'll never release anything other than CDRs.
165. If no one in your bands owns a record label then write rave reviews of the bands that do.
166. Don't mention Lee Dorian's singing ability. Remember, he owns a record label.
167. "The end will come for all these lies, life is worthless, life will die, there's no need to cry" --Douglas P.
168. Funeral Doomsters: Make sure you have a tuner connected to your guitar, it's bound to get out of tune between strikes.
169. Did the lights just go out or was that the night?
170. Expect the term 'Score' to mean one thing to a Funeral Doomster and something completely different to a Stoner Doomster.
171. Expect the phrase "Is there another key?" to mean one thing to a Death Doomster and something completely different to a Stoner Doomster.
172. The glass is half empty dummy.
173. Don't cry into your beer, it will water it down and make it taste salty.
174. Doom SHALL rise.
175. Doom or be doomed.
176. Say after me... "I will stay on this revolving globe of outrage until it breaks wind and collapses on itself".
177. When everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane.
178. Pour your heart and soul into designing a flyer, get them printed, then don't post them. It's connected with rule 91... Flyers = Sellout... remember, no one must know.
179. Always outnumber your audience in case they beat you up after the gig and nick your equipment
180. Tell everyone that your bandmembers are all 100% True Doom, even if the drummer's secretly into Trash, the guitarist's a closet Malmsteen fan and the bassplayer's so doped up he thinks he a Prog Rocker.
181. You can be in as many bands as you like, but just make sure that they all play the same stage on the same night, and ideally, sound exactly the same.
182. Get a girlfriend...she will double the audience!
183. Amaze your audience and get a full lineup together.
184. To be classified True™ doom you must obtain a signed certificate of authentication from Wino.
185. Any sign of progression or deviation from the True™ Doom path will result in debagging and expulsion from the’ Circle Of True Doom’™. Disgraced band member's names will be struck from the 'Children of Doom' ™ register and Wino certification withdrawn.
186. The Swans are doom.
187. Doom is Rage without the aggression.
188. Don't try and headbang to Funeral Doom.

Dear God, I've made yet another bad late-night decision. I dug out my long-lost (it turned up in my brother's CD collection) copy of Mike Ness' debut solo album. In some ways, it might as well be 1999 again; in others, I just... fuck, I just don't need to get any more introspective than I already am.

At least the tunes kick ass.

Tomorrow, as thousands of Londoners try to navigate, on foot, the crimson haze of horror that was inflicted upon them just over twenty-four hours ago, I will be cleaning my room. These things have nothing to do with each other, save to accentuate just how remote humans can be from one another, even the most horrendous of times.

No, that's not accurate at all. The London bombings/cleaning house juxtaposition simply shows that people, in this case myself, will continue to be banal in any situation that is not immediately life- or worldview-threatening, and even then I suspect that banality would return as soon as it possibly could.

I don't know what's more disheartening: my pessimism or my banality, as exhibited in the writing of this entry.

Coda:

Well, I could have a coda, since some essays I'm reading in between bursts of typing this have given me an idea, but I'm having a hard time concentrating, and frankly, I should be working on Unheimlich or something.

Download these songs and get yerself some kulchur.

As of today, I've been proofreading ads at the Greensheet for an entire year.

Don't congratulate me.

Amazingly depressive: a few words, some alcohol, and a walk home alone are enough to negate all the good things that can happen in a night. Not eradicate, mind you, but negate them, by putting all the pissant miserable things in the forefront of your mind.

It takes hope, Sentenced, and, oddly enough, nostalgia to be able to go to bed without feeling bitter and desirous of futility's embrace.

I've posted the paltry amount of work I've done on Unheimlich in the past three months. Check it out.

I constantly wonder how productive I would be in a different environment. I can think of three specifically that I'd like to try out, though only one of them- relative isolation at my uncle's place for a while- is within my grasp. All of them require not having the distraction of a job, of course; the myriad of other distractions I can create myself are more than enough to deal with when trying to write. Said distractions are the reason I haven't gotten much done this weekend, or at least as much as I'd hoped. I've actually cranked out more tonight than I have in a long while, and I believe I'm gonna keep going for another hour or two.

For some time I've told myself and others that I'm not a big fan of stimulants. I must amend that statement to exclude coffee, especially coffee consumed with cigarettes during a writing session. I need to regularly exchange beer for coffee when I write.

Oh yes. I met a very interesting, very pretty woman this weekend.