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.

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.

"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

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."

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.

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.

unheeded by most, the wisdom of the low desert punk:

"Take your time, today's not tomorrow."

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.

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."

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.

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.

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?

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."

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.