Life's been good. Literary output has been virtually nil this past week, but life's still good. I could say more, but I'm tired and my brain isn't functioning properly. I think I may just read a bit before hittin' the hay.
Thanks, y'all.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Sprite and skyward melancholy.
The Day of the Apes was attended by just the right folks, although, as I suspected, we didn't make it past the third film, Escape from the Planet of the Apes. With the help of a massive supply of beer and junk food, an animatronic, remote-controlled ape head, and plenty of conversation, it was a most excellent experiment. It was also Linda's birthday, so when she and I went to the bookstore, I bought her a copy of Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I reckon she'll enjoy it.
Now I'm just tired and listening to Agalloch and Nest while drinking Sprite and debating whether to watch the X-Files or go to sleep. Tomorrow the plan is to have lunch at Cafe Montrose with Linda and Tracey, then hang out with Ashley later in the day/evening. Somewhere in there I need to sit down and write, but I'll worry about that later; right now I've got to make the aforementioned decison and not let the best of "She Painted Fire Across the Skyline" get the best of me.
Good night, world.
Now I'm just tired and listening to Agalloch and Nest while drinking Sprite and debating whether to watch the X-Files or go to sleep. Tomorrow the plan is to have lunch at Cafe Montrose with Linda and Tracey, then hang out with Ashley later in the day/evening. Somewhere in there I need to sit down and write, but I'll worry about that later; right now I've got to make the aforementioned decison and not let the best of "She Painted Fire Across the Skyline" get the best of me.
Good night, world.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Drunken theological reassurance.
Here are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs ever. Laugh all you want, Philistines, especially if you haven't heard the song or should you take it as stereotypical stoned metal poetics, but know this: your fate is that of your namesakes, and that people like Matt Pike- the writer of this song- are far closer to gnosis* than anyone would like to believe.
At some later date, I hope to comment upon classical Gnosticism more thoroughly (and thereby possibly render my previous post obsolete and/or hypocritical), but don't hold your breath: my knowledge of theology may seem impressive to the sub-layman, but trust me, it's utterly wretched.
In the meantime, download an mp3 of the song below, crank up the volume, and try to understand why this kind of thing means as much to me as it does, as well as why I feel that heavy metal is the only musical venue that's done anything for any kind of religious sentiment since country and western and gospel.
"Baghdad"
High On Fire
from The Art of Self Defense
Quickening of the Elder
Knowledge of the Otherside
Deepweed sets emotion
Hardening of the Warrior
The burning
That will never die
Melding of the Riffchild
From wall to the Universe
Weed priest stoned arrival
Sharpening of the weapons
The skill inside the endless mind
Celestial King walks water
Hear words foretell destruction
Hear words expose corruption
Generation darkening
Echoes from the mountain
A warning to behold the times
Insight saved the blind man
Covenant with the Father
The burning that will never die
Supersonic psalmist project
Reveals astro child
Windows of the Riffian
Nameless masses cower
From horse and carriage
In the sky
*I had the (presumably) correct Greek text for this in the body of this post, but Blogger opted to render it as ??????, which is unacceptable. You can find my source at the Wikipedia entry for "gnosticism" if you're interested.
At some later date, I hope to comment upon classical Gnosticism more thoroughly (and thereby possibly render my previous post obsolete and/or hypocritical), but don't hold your breath: my knowledge of theology may seem impressive to the sub-layman, but trust me, it's utterly wretched.
In the meantime, download an mp3 of the song below, crank up the volume, and try to understand why this kind of thing means as much to me as it does, as well as why I feel that heavy metal is the only musical venue that's done anything for any kind of religious sentiment since country and western and gospel.
"Baghdad"
High On Fire
from The Art of Self Defense
Quickening of the Elder
Knowledge of the Otherside
Deepweed sets emotion
Hardening of the Warrior
The burning
That will never die
Melding of the Riffchild
From wall to the Universe
Weed priest stoned arrival
Sharpening of the weapons
The skill inside the endless mind
Celestial King walks water
Hear words foretell destruction
Hear words expose corruption
Generation darkening
Echoes from the mountain
A warning to behold the times
Insight saved the blind man
Covenant with the Father
The burning that will never die
Supersonic psalmist project
Reveals astro child
Windows of the Riffian
Nameless masses cower
From horse and carriage
In the sky
*I had the (presumably) correct Greek text for this in the body of this post, but Blogger opted to render it as ??????, which is unacceptable. You can find my source at the Wikipedia entry for "gnosticism" if you're interested.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Brain in a jar.
In response mainly to my desire to do something else for a living, I often attempt to sketch out ideas for non-fiction or journalistic pieces that could be sold to magazines, newspapers, etc. Within minutes, if not seconds, these sketches vanish from my mind, only to come back the next time I think about how much I dislike my job, only to disappear again, ad infinitum/nauseam.
Why is this? Probably because I really have no interest in writing jack shit that ain't fiction. I'm lazy, and don't want to research anything that doesn't interest me, and the odds are that if I'm taking money for something, it probably doesn't interest me (with certain exceptions, of course; proofing Len Bracken's work has paid in the past, and I thoroughly enjoyed it). But it's not really about the money so much as the fact that I'm intellectually and artistically lazy and selfish. If I wasn't, I'd be back in grad school by now, cranking out papers on William Gibson or James Joyce or Kierkegaard or heavy metal, or writing copy for an ad agency or something. Instead, I'm proofing the work of subliterates until two AM and writing novels that are exactly what I want to write.
I'd like to be a well-rounded writer, but I'm not, and that's fine. I'd like to be a halfway respectable author of incisive articles and journal pieces, but I'm not, and that's fine too. What I am, and what I'm fine with being, is a torpid scribbler of fictionalized obsessions and fascinations. Sure, I'll never receive any acclaim for writing about the stuff I do, and I doubt I could ever pen anything even vaguely perceivable as "important," but really, who gives a fuck? I'll let the academics do their thing, the journalists theirs, and the essayists theirs, and applaud them all. In the meantime, someone's gotta hold down the couch or the lawn chair in the driveway without resorting to folk-advice/nostalgia column writing, and that someone is me.
That said, I am rather ashamed of my intellectual impulsiveness and lack of focus sometimes... until I remember that, in many cases, I can hold my own in a conversation pretty much anywhere and with anyone. Christ, now there's a thought- Dave Smith goin' down in the books as a good conversationalist. Har!
Why is this? Probably because I really have no interest in writing jack shit that ain't fiction. I'm lazy, and don't want to research anything that doesn't interest me, and the odds are that if I'm taking money for something, it probably doesn't interest me (with certain exceptions, of course; proofing Len Bracken's work has paid in the past, and I thoroughly enjoyed it). But it's not really about the money so much as the fact that I'm intellectually and artistically lazy and selfish. If I wasn't, I'd be back in grad school by now, cranking out papers on William Gibson or James Joyce or Kierkegaard or heavy metal, or writing copy for an ad agency or something. Instead, I'm proofing the work of subliterates until two AM and writing novels that are exactly what I want to write.
I'd like to be a well-rounded writer, but I'm not, and that's fine. I'd like to be a halfway respectable author of incisive articles and journal pieces, but I'm not, and that's fine too. What I am, and what I'm fine with being, is a torpid scribbler of fictionalized obsessions and fascinations. Sure, I'll never receive any acclaim for writing about the stuff I do, and I doubt I could ever pen anything even vaguely perceivable as "important," but really, who gives a fuck? I'll let the academics do their thing, the journalists theirs, and the essayists theirs, and applaud them all. In the meantime, someone's gotta hold down the couch or the lawn chair in the driveway without resorting to folk-advice/nostalgia column writing, and that someone is me.
That said, I am rather ashamed of my intellectual impulsiveness and lack of focus sometimes... until I remember that, in many cases, I can hold my own in a conversation pretty much anywhere and with anyone. Christ, now there's a thought- Dave Smith goin' down in the books as a good conversationalist. Har!
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Hot-cha!
Ah, resuscitated casualties (non-Delta Green variety- ask if you really care) and X-Files. This is the second best way to spend the fourth hour of a morning.
Cometh Down Hessian...
And so I did, to the Engine Room to see High On Fire tonight. I missed all the other bands, but who cared? Not I, for there are few other modern acts who can compare to the triune metal juggernaut that is Joe Preston, Des Kensel, and Matt Pike. Dave went with me, 'cause I'd talked to Matt Pike on Monday and he added Y.T. plus one to the guest list, and Dave had a good enough time to purchase a High On Fire shirt of his own. I'd forgotten that he'd actually gone to see 'em with me a couple years ago or so, when I first gave Matt Pike a copy of Axis Mundi Sum and, amazingly, earned his respect for the writing therein. It's pretty much because of AMS that Matt has remembered who I am and has, ever since he read and enjoyed the book, put me on the guest list and had a couple drinks with me whenever High On Fire is in town. I had a good time shooting the shit and shooting Jack Daniels with Matt, who made me feel kinda bad for not having published anything since AMS, but fuck, that was minimal.
Enough of the groupie shit. HOF is a band that's sounded fucking killer every one of the five or six times I've seen 'em, even in places with notoriously shitty sound like the Engine Room (vide my previous comments about the Nile show a couple weeks ago). Why is this? I don't know for sure, but I attribute it to the simple fact that High On Fire fucking KILL. Green Matamps, a stripped-down drum kit beaten like an unruly Roman slave, Pike's possessed axework, Joe Preston's way-too-impressive-for-a-dude-who-plays-with-a-pick bass guitar... holy mother of fuck, man, those three know what they're doing, and they just fuckin' do it. I missed half the show for the hair flailing in front of my face, and I ain't talkin' about some stranger's.
Shit, what a solid night. I walked away happy, then went back when Dave discovered that his new shirt was missing (we actually recovered it in the parking lot, amazingly), then stuffed myself on Ruchi's, and now I'm stretched out on the ol' bed, grinning like a Cheshire cat with horns. I wish y'all could've been there, but I did manage to snag a singular piece of memorabilia for the Mick, 'cause I said I'd try, and by Christ, I did... courtesy of my acquaintance with Matt Pike.
Really, y'all, you need to trust me when I say shit's good. I know some of you do, but not enough. So be it; not all can answer the battle-cry of "COMETH DOWN HESSIAN!"
P.S. Pardon the awful structure and/or syntax of this entry. I'm just drunk, tired, and excited enough not to worry about how well I come across in expressing my thorough happiness with the evening. Again, I really wish y'all could have been there. Why the hell weren't you?
Enough of the groupie shit. HOF is a band that's sounded fucking killer every one of the five or six times I've seen 'em, even in places with notoriously shitty sound like the Engine Room (vide my previous comments about the Nile show a couple weeks ago). Why is this? I don't know for sure, but I attribute it to the simple fact that High On Fire fucking KILL. Green Matamps, a stripped-down drum kit beaten like an unruly Roman slave, Pike's possessed axework, Joe Preston's way-too-impressive-for-a-dude-who-plays-with-a-pick bass guitar... holy mother of fuck, man, those three know what they're doing, and they just fuckin' do it. I missed half the show for the hair flailing in front of my face, and I ain't talkin' about some stranger's.
Shit, what a solid night. I walked away happy, then went back when Dave discovered that his new shirt was missing (we actually recovered it in the parking lot, amazingly), then stuffed myself on Ruchi's, and now I'm stretched out on the ol' bed, grinning like a Cheshire cat with horns. I wish y'all could've been there, but I did manage to snag a singular piece of memorabilia for the Mick, 'cause I said I'd try, and by Christ, I did... courtesy of my acquaintance with Matt Pike.
Really, y'all, you need to trust me when I say shit's good. I know some of you do, but not enough. So be it; not all can answer the battle-cry of "COMETH DOWN HESSIAN!"
P.S. Pardon the awful structure and/or syntax of this entry. I'm just drunk, tired, and excited enough not to worry about how well I come across in expressing my thorough happiness with the evening. Again, I really wish y'all could have been there. Why the hell weren't you?
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Stable-boy for the Devil's steed.
I've discerned a vague pattern to my running commentary:
A) Daily updates, usually devoid of anything interesting.
B) Topical posts, i.e. diatribes about records, books, etc.
C) Drunken, often late-night (by the standards of diurnal folks) rambling.
D) All/some of the above together, in which case I throw in a statement of my love for my friends and family. I never regret such statements, holding to the belief that one must always let one's loved ones know that they are loved, especially when said folks are not immediately available and/or unwilling to take phone calls at six in the morning, wherein yours truly will spout declarations of love and friendship, even if the recipient doesn't want to hear them.
On a somewhat unrelated, but not very much so, note, go read Andy's Small Wood Volumes material. I'd sacrifice my own writing career if it meant that Mr. Link would be published and appreciated.
So much to say, yet such heavy eyelids, leaden sense of insignificance. Buenas noches, mundo.
A) Daily updates, usually devoid of anything interesting.
B) Topical posts, i.e. diatribes about records, books, etc.
C) Drunken, often late-night (by the standards of diurnal folks) rambling.
D) All/some of the above together, in which case I throw in a statement of my love for my friends and family. I never regret such statements, holding to the belief that one must always let one's loved ones know that they are loved, especially when said folks are not immediately available and/or unwilling to take phone calls at six in the morning, wherein yours truly will spout declarations of love and friendship, even if the recipient doesn't want to hear them.
On a somewhat unrelated, but not very much so, note, go read Andy's Small Wood Volumes material. I'd sacrifice my own writing career if it meant that Mr. Link would be published and appreciated.
So much to say, yet such heavy eyelids, leaden sense of insignificance. Buenas noches, mundo.
"Maybe you're all just going faggot."
I spent my afternoon loafing with my brother, which encompassed eating at Chicken & Egg Roll, drinking beer, and trying to figure out how to use the sights on rifles equipped to fire rifle grenades. Afterwards, I came home, watched some metal DVDs (Hypocrisy, Slayer, and Cathedral, namely), then went and saw The Warriors, which was the midnight movie at River Oaks. I can't exactly recall when I first saw said movie- it was either in college with friends or on the almighty and sadly defunct Monstervision, but it was years ago either way- but seeing it on the big screen, beer in hand (River Oaks now sells booze! Now I have a reason to go to the movies again!), and surrounded by people who were, like me, talking shit loudly and having a ball, watching it again was a fuckin' blast. Too bad my brother bailed 3/4 of the way through, for reasons unknown but suspected.
Fuckin' A, folks! I hope your Friday was as solid as mine.
Fuckin' A, folks! I hope your Friday was as solid as mine.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Fire the weekend's starting gun.
Awww, shit! Peter Beste, the dude whose photographs of the almighty Norwegian black metal scene made me drive to Austin several months back, has posted some photos of Houston rap/ghetto culture on his site. I knew he was a native Texan, but I didn't know he was from H-Town. Of course, I didn't talk to him long enough to know that.
I dig being excited about life, as I am now. I've been playing Psychonauts non-stop, had some beers with Linda tonight, and don't have to work for the next three days. On top of that, I might go bowling tomorrow and am working on plans to have drinks with Andy, Linda, and Tracey on Sunday, and there's the High On Fire gig Tuesday. Unheimlich will be worked on over the weekend, of course, and while I'm damned near broke, I ain't so broke as to not be able to enjoy myself. The only thing that could make tonight better would be a series of killer (not in the Nightmare on Elm Street sense, of course) dreams, and I bet I'll have some, courtesy of the greatest, and most legal, drugs that I've enjoyed for a while now: melatonin.
All right.
I dig being excited about life, as I am now. I've been playing Psychonauts non-stop, had some beers with Linda tonight, and don't have to work for the next three days. On top of that, I might go bowling tomorrow and am working on plans to have drinks with Andy, Linda, and Tracey on Sunday, and there's the High On Fire gig Tuesday. Unheimlich will be worked on over the weekend, of course, and while I'm damned near broke, I ain't so broke as to not be able to enjoy myself. The only thing that could make tonight better would be a series of killer (not in the Nightmare on Elm Street sense, of course) dreams, and I bet I'll have some, courtesy of the greatest, and most legal, drugs that I've enjoyed for a while now: melatonin.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
A window to the sun, or, inappropriately timed lyrical references.
I got home from work around two-something this morning, and the Mann was still awake, so I spent a couple off-and-on hours shooting the shit with him, hassling the ferrets, playing Psychonauts, which Mynheer Van Cleve lent me a while back but I never managed to progress in until recently, and pointedly not writing. I also drank some of the Knappogue Castle that Matt and Sara gave me for Christmas, though I felt kinda bad about doing so. I handed it over to Dave for safekeeping, seeing as how it's good stuff, but since he was awake and I had no beer, necessity, you know, dictated. Well, not necessity, just a long-standing habit that, frankly, I don't want to break, but maybe should. (If you're reading this, Shari: shush, b'y.)
It's almost eight in the morning, so I can go buy beer if I wanted to, but do I? It's a toss-up between doing so and thereby engaging in one of my favorite activities- drinking beer while watching the daylight mount the eastern horizon- and staying here in my warm bed and listening to more Sol Invictus. I should just take some melatonin and sink into blessed sleep, but I'm not placing any bets on either happening within the hour... no, it's time to close down shop, and lay this corpse to rest. For now.
"As the shadows fall
As the day is done
Let the clock wind down
Let the bells be rung"
Good night, blessed world and beloved readers.
It's almost eight in the morning, so I can go buy beer if I wanted to, but do I? It's a toss-up between doing so and thereby engaging in one of my favorite activities- drinking beer while watching the daylight mount the eastern horizon- and staying here in my warm bed and listening to more Sol Invictus. I should just take some melatonin and sink into blessed sleep, but I'm not placing any bets on either happening within the hour... no, it's time to close down shop, and lay this corpse to rest. For now.
"As the shadows fall
As the day is done
Let the clock wind down
Let the bells be rung"
Good night, blessed world and beloved readers.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
You think Baudelaire might wanna stop by?
I do believe I'm going to reprise my Judas Priest/writing/stimulated concentration experiment again in the near future, but with Blue Öyster Cult instead of Priest. It'll require a lot more dedication, since I own all but two of BÖC's albums, and I'll have to do it when I don't have to crawl out of bed too hastily the next day. The only other band who might work, based on extensive ownership of albums and overall repeatability, would be Iron Maiden, but I'll probably go with BÖC first. Alternately, I could go into full-blown trance mode and see what happens when I spark up the burl sense and listen to Sleep's Dopesmoker three or four times in a row. (Wait, I know what would happen: I'd get couch lock and nod off. Damn.)
Man, now I'm getting all kinds of weird ideas. I could play X Files DVDs with the sound off while I write and listen to Hypocrisy. Pig Destroyer's "Natasha" on headphones while typing away in the darkest hours of a summer night, shirtless and barefoot and sweating. Holy Mountain (the movie, not the Sleep album) projected onto a wall, Hoor-Paar-Kraat's metal/glass drones on the stereo, Sharpies and paper and magical texts. Whiskey and wine and women and tears of joy with Cerys Matthews singing in the background. Any and all of these things could be communal events, with the goal being the creation of something unique, the art of the moment.
I'll need to approach the Mann and Link about some of this. Shit, that reminds me, I gotta talk to Link about the KIY party. It must happen. We're Carcosa-bound sooner or later anyway.
Man, now I'm getting all kinds of weird ideas. I could play X Files DVDs with the sound off while I write and listen to Hypocrisy. Pig Destroyer's "Natasha" on headphones while typing away in the darkest hours of a summer night, shirtless and barefoot and sweating. Holy Mountain (the movie, not the Sleep album) projected onto a wall, Hoor-Paar-Kraat's metal/glass drones on the stereo, Sharpies and paper and magical texts. Whiskey and wine and women and tears of joy with Cerys Matthews singing in the background. Any and all of these things could be communal events, with the goal being the creation of something unique, the art of the moment.
I'll need to approach the Mann and Link about some of this. Shit, that reminds me, I gotta talk to Link about the KIY party. It must happen. We're Carcosa-bound sooner or later anyway.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Call for the PRIEST! (with periodic updates)
Having heard nothing from folks regarding potential nocturnal activities, I've decided to listen to every Judas Priest album I have and write until I've played all of them.
It's 11:33 PM right now, so with any luck, I'll have more than a few pages to show for my efforts when I pass the fuck out around four-thirty or five this morning.
Because none of you give a shit about the albums in question, here's a list. Happy Sunday night, kids: this is what you get for not inviting me out to socialize, and what I get for not caring.
LPs:
Hell Bent for Leather
Stained Class
British Steel
Screaming for Vengeance
CDs:
Painkiller
Angel of Retribution
Point of Entry
Defenders of the Faith
1:51 AM: I'm halfway through my Priest catalog, and the only song I've skipped and/or plan on skipping is "Lochness" (sic). I've got roughly four pages written, which ain't bad. The mental sharpness seems to be waning, but not sufficiently to put me off of my goal. In summary: ALL GUNS BLAZING!
2:36 AM: Still defending the faith.
3:14 AM: All that's left is Point of Entry and Stained Class. Distraction is setting in; to combat it, I think I may go the extra mile and add the couple of Rob Halford solo albums I have to the night's marathon playlist. We'll see.
4:05 AM: Almost there, but solo Halford albums ain't gonna join the lineup. I'm fucking tired, and the writing's slowed to a crawl. I should have cut away from the section I was working on and done something else, but it's too late for that. At this point, "Exciter" doesn't.
4:35 AM: A fairly successful and entertaining experiment comes to a close. I'm surprised at how few of my LPs skipped, how little dust collected on the turntable needle, and how decent what I wrote turned out (I think). I'm not surprised that I allowed myself to get periodically distracted by the internet, nor by the amount of writing I did (six pages and change, which is a bit less than I'd hoped for). But enough assessment for now- it's time to hit the sack.
Good job, self!
It's 11:33 PM right now, so with any luck, I'll have more than a few pages to show for my efforts when I pass the fuck out around four-thirty or five this morning.
Because none of you give a shit about the albums in question, here's a list. Happy Sunday night, kids: this is what you get for not inviting me out to socialize, and what I get for not caring.
LPs:
Hell Bent for Leather
Stained Class
British Steel
Screaming for Vengeance
CDs:
Painkiller
Angel of Retribution
Point of Entry
Defenders of the Faith
1:51 AM: I'm halfway through my Priest catalog, and the only song I've skipped and/or plan on skipping is "Lochness" (sic). I've got roughly four pages written, which ain't bad. The mental sharpness seems to be waning, but not sufficiently to put me off of my goal. In summary: ALL GUNS BLAZING!
2:36 AM: Still defending the faith.
3:14 AM: All that's left is Point of Entry and Stained Class. Distraction is setting in; to combat it, I think I may go the extra mile and add the couple of Rob Halford solo albums I have to the night's marathon playlist. We'll see.
4:05 AM: Almost there, but solo Halford albums ain't gonna join the lineup. I'm fucking tired, and the writing's slowed to a crawl. I should have cut away from the section I was working on and done something else, but it's too late for that. At this point, "Exciter" doesn't.
4:35 AM: A fairly successful and entertaining experiment comes to a close. I'm surprised at how few of my LPs skipped, how little dust collected on the turntable needle, and how decent what I wrote turned out (I think). I'm not surprised that I allowed myself to get periodically distracted by the internet, nor by the amount of writing I did (six pages and change, which is a bit less than I'd hoped for). But enough assessment for now- it's time to hit the sack.
Good job, self!
Jump at the apex!
Last night I went and saw Hypocrisy and Nile. I was supposed to see Raging Speedhorn but missed them; instead, I saw Soilent Green, albeit briefly. Hypocrisy played a set whose incredibility made up for its brevity; I got to hear "Roswell 47," "Fire in the Sky," and, amazingly, "Fractured Millenium." When I heard the keyboard intro to "Fractured Millenium," I looked over at my brother, whose neck ended up as damaged as mine in nomine headbanging, and almost lost my shit. "Fire in the Sky" and "Fractured Millenium" are two of my favorite Hypocrisy songs, if not THE two favorite, so it was a fucking treat.
Alas, Nile was nothing to write home about, and we left three or four songs in. The sound was awful, and all you could hear were the solos, the vocals, and some of the drums. I saw Nile a couple years ago, but left early for entirely different reasons, i.e. time constraints or something along those lines. This time, I was psyched to hear shit off of Annihilation of the Wicked, which I did, but like I said, the sound sucked so badly that even I, who demanded that we stick around, wanted to split. I did pick up Karl Sanders' Saurian Meditation and Nile and Hypocrisy tour shirts, though, so even with my unfortunate dismissal of one of death metal's finest, good times were had.
On Saturday, I spent all afternoon sitting in my driveway drinking beer and shooting the shit with Vanessa, and later Dave, my brother, and Matt. Afterwards, my brother, Vanessa, and I trekked to Marfreless, home of cute, friendly waitresses and subsidized drinks, and then ended up at Cherryhurst Park here in Montrose, where the three of us enjoyed swingsets, slides, drinking fountains, wood chip ground cover, and declarations of creating playgrounds for adults when any of us have the finances.
Aside from the absence of certain folks, and having not written shit lately, things have been solid this weekend. Oh, and I now own almost as many pairs of jeans without holes as I do pairs with holes.
Alas, Nile was nothing to write home about, and we left three or four songs in. The sound was awful, and all you could hear were the solos, the vocals, and some of the drums. I saw Nile a couple years ago, but left early for entirely different reasons, i.e. time constraints or something along those lines. This time, I was psyched to hear shit off of Annihilation of the Wicked, which I did, but like I said, the sound sucked so badly that even I, who demanded that we stick around, wanted to split. I did pick up Karl Sanders' Saurian Meditation and Nile and Hypocrisy tour shirts, though, so even with my unfortunate dismissal of one of death metal's finest, good times were had.
On Saturday, I spent all afternoon sitting in my driveway drinking beer and shooting the shit with Vanessa, and later Dave, my brother, and Matt. Afterwards, my brother, Vanessa, and I trekked to Marfreless, home of cute, friendly waitresses and subsidized drinks, and then ended up at Cherryhurst Park here in Montrose, where the three of us enjoyed swingsets, slides, drinking fountains, wood chip ground cover, and declarations of creating playgrounds for adults when any of us have the finances.
Aside from the absence of certain folks, and having not written shit lately, things have been solid this weekend. Oh, and I now own almost as many pairs of jeans without holes as I do pairs with holes.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Me circa AD&D Second Edition.
D.A. Smith
Human
2nd-level Specialty Priest of Doubt/Good Times
Str: 9
Con: 15
Dex: 11
Int: 15
Wis: 14
Cha: 12
HP: 11
AC: 10 (no armor)
Weapon proficiencies: AK-47, six-pack, lit cigarette
Non-weapon proficiencies: read/write English, read/write Spanish (-4 proficiency check), read/write French (-8 proficiency check), artistic ability (writing), cooking, religion, swimming
Spellbook/spells granted by prayer: Summon Almighty Riffs, Cure Light Wounds (With Beer), Take It Easy
Equipment: leather wristband (no AC bonus), selection of heavy metal band t-shirts, steel-toed boots (+1d3 damage to kick attacks), pack of cigarettes, hair tie, books, LPs/CDs, place to sit, six-pack of beer, The Gospel of Casual
Human
2nd-level Specialty Priest of Doubt/Good Times
Str: 9
Con: 15
Dex: 11
Int: 15
Wis: 14
Cha: 12
HP: 11
AC: 10 (no armor)
Weapon proficiencies: AK-47, six-pack, lit cigarette
Non-weapon proficiencies: read/write English, read/write Spanish (-4 proficiency check), read/write French (-8 proficiency check), artistic ability (writing), cooking, religion, swimming
Spellbook/spells granted by prayer: Summon Almighty Riffs, Cure Light Wounds (With Beer), Take It Easy
Equipment: leather wristband (no AC bonus), selection of heavy metal band t-shirts, steel-toed boots (+1d3 damage to kick attacks), pack of cigarettes, hair tie, books, LPs/CDs, place to sit, six-pack of beer, The Gospel of Casual
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Oliver is back!
Somehow he escaped and ended up in my neighbor's garage. Now he's home, thanks to Devin asking strangers questions and to my neighbor, who so kindly took care of Oliver while he was gone.
I'm still exhausted from the whole thing, so I think I'm going back to bed.
I'm still exhausted from the whole thing, so I think I'm going back to bed.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Dr. Long Ghost is MIA.
One of my ferrets, Dr. Oliver Long Ghost, is missing. I don't know where he is, how he left the apartment, or if I'll see him again.
I'm going to continue tearing this place apart, wandering the neighborhood, and feeling sick.
I'm going to continue tearing this place apart, wandering the neighborhood, and feeling sick.
Exhibits A-C of Saturday night's scavenger hunt.
I really should be writing fiction right now, but I figured I'd take a minute to acknowledge the excellent weekend I had. The highlight, of course, was the Tracey-organized scavenger hunt that took place Saturday evening. Linda, Andy, Penny, and I, collectively known as the Invisibles, had a blast running around town collecting photographic evidence of our shenanigans (which were less shenanigans than minor social absurdities). Behold!
Here I am about to drink a Long Island Iced Tea from the ratty dive known as Marquis II. It contains approximately one half-gallon of varied alcohol, and I consumed no more than a quarter of it. Awful, awful shit.
The Invisibles cram themselves into the men's room at the Volcano. It was rather spacious and clean, and therefore not too off-putting.
And here is yours truly with $350 worth of champagne atop my skull. You can imagine the consequences of the bottle ending up on the floor.
In unrelated news, I received my copy of Hoor-Paar-Kraat's newest release, Asha-Dasha, in the mail today. I have no way of describing it other than to say it's probably far stranger and much cooler than anything you're listening to these days. I can't wait for the dude to release his first LP in the next month or so.
Here I am about to drink a Long Island Iced Tea from the ratty dive known as Marquis II. It contains approximately one half-gallon of varied alcohol, and I consumed no more than a quarter of it. Awful, awful shit.
The Invisibles cram themselves into the men's room at the Volcano. It was rather spacious and clean, and therefore not too off-putting.
And here is yours truly with $350 worth of champagne atop my skull. You can imagine the consequences of the bottle ending up on the floor.
In unrelated news, I received my copy of Hoor-Paar-Kraat's newest release, Asha-Dasha, in the mail today. I have no way of describing it other than to say it's probably far stranger and much cooler than anything you're listening to these days. I can't wait for the dude to release his first LP in the next month or so.
Friday, January 06, 2006
And so the years commingle as the essences of lovers, and all, young and old, rejoice.
Is 2006 a new mark for me? Is this the year where I shed my cynicism, my doubt, my fear?
It feels like it.
But, most likely, it's not.
I'm merely a little older, know myself a little better, and have half-assedly consecrated my heart to the demigods of failure and good times. Almost-estranged brothers are they, which is why I exist to fill the fraternal gap.
I love so many of you so much that words only serve as a barrier to true expression. Scott. Pops. Mom. Bill. Amanda. Andy. Linda. Elspeth. Shari. Dave. Eric. Tam. Sean. Uncle Smitty. All of you, the lights of my life. Thank you, so very fucking much.
I can only hope I can return a fraction of the favor y'all have done for me.
It feels like it.
But, most likely, it's not.
I'm merely a little older, know myself a little better, and have half-assedly consecrated my heart to the demigods of failure and good times. Almost-estranged brothers are they, which is why I exist to fill the fraternal gap.
I love so many of you so much that words only serve as a barrier to true expression. Scott. Pops. Mom. Bill. Amanda. Andy. Linda. Elspeth. Shari. Dave. Eric. Tam. Sean. Uncle Smitty. All of you, the lights of my life. Thank you, so very fucking much.
I can only hope I can return a fraction of the favor y'all have done for me.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Another day, another dollar, another chance not to fuck it up.
I got up a little late and failed to cook lunch, but at least I didn't come home to find my house a pile of scorched timber and blackened insulation like I thought I would. Before I left for work, I was smoking a cigarette, and as I sat at the bus stop up the street, I began wondering if I'd put it out properly. Apparently I did, so good for me.
I started reading Peter Ackroyd's London: The Biography a day or two ago. I bought it months ago, but have purposefully put off from reading it, given the number of other dense tomes I was working through during 2005. I'm glad I waited, because this book is absolutely fucking fantastic, and a perfect way to start the new year. I haven't been to London in eight years, and every time I talk to anyone who's been there, or read about it (usually in a psychogeographical sense, such as the works of Iain Sinclair, Smoke magazine, or stuff like Alan Moore's From Hell), I want to go back immediately and wander around constantly. London: The Biography makes this urge even stronger. It also saddens me, in a way, to live in a city like Houston, which, while rich in history of its own kind, lacks the mystery of a city as old and crucial as London. On the other hand, maybe it's because good ol' H-Town is a stripling of a town, a greasy, damp tabula rasa, that it will always be my home. Odds are there will never be a paean to Houston on par with Ackroyd's to London, but hey, I live here, so this town's got that much going for it.
Well, enough wishful thinking about Houston, and back to memorializing it and one of its satellite pseudo-towns (Spring) in fiction. Here's to tomorrow going smoothly, quickly, and free of pyrophobia. Y'all take it easy.
I started reading Peter Ackroyd's London: The Biography a day or two ago. I bought it months ago, but have purposefully put off from reading it, given the number of other dense tomes I was working through during 2005. I'm glad I waited, because this book is absolutely fucking fantastic, and a perfect way to start the new year. I haven't been to London in eight years, and every time I talk to anyone who's been there, or read about it (usually in a psychogeographical sense, such as the works of Iain Sinclair, Smoke magazine, or stuff like Alan Moore's From Hell), I want to go back immediately and wander around constantly. London: The Biography makes this urge even stronger. It also saddens me, in a way, to live in a city like Houston, which, while rich in history of its own kind, lacks the mystery of a city as old and crucial as London. On the other hand, maybe it's because good ol' H-Town is a stripling of a town, a greasy, damp tabula rasa, that it will always be my home. Odds are there will never be a paean to Houston on par with Ackroyd's to London, but hey, I live here, so this town's got that much going for it.
Well, enough wishful thinking about Houston, and back to memorializing it and one of its satellite pseudo-towns (Spring) in fiction. Here's to tomorrow going smoothly, quickly, and free of pyrophobia. Y'all take it easy.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Noticias.
I have posted 25 new pages of my novel in progress, Unheimlich. If you haven't been reading it, please do so; if you have, thank you; either way, I need, and want, all the commentary I can get, so please don't hesitate.
I planned on being in bed three hours ago, but- get this- idleness got in the way.
Good night, you scarred, lamp-lit, gorgeous world.
I planned on being in bed three hours ago, but- get this- idleness got in the way.
Good night, you scarred, lamp-lit, gorgeous world.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Monday, January 02, 2006
A good weekend, indeed.
This has been the best weekend in a long while. Thanks to everyone who made it so, and I hope I see all of you more often.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Dear 2006:
Dear 2006,
If you're as half-assed as 2005 was, I'm gonna be pissed. I'll do what I can to help out, but seriously, don't screw this one up.
Casually,
D.A. Smith
***
I'll have the list of books I read in 2005 up as soon as my lazy ass bothers to turn on the desktop and hook up the internet connection so I can email said list to myself.
Happy New Year, folks, and here's wishing you all nothing but the best.
If you're as half-assed as 2005 was, I'm gonna be pissed. I'll do what I can to help out, but seriously, don't screw this one up.
Casually,
D.A. Smith
***
I'll have the list of books I read in 2005 up as soon as my lazy ass bothers to turn on the desktop and hook up the internet connection so I can email said list to myself.
Happy New Year, folks, and here's wishing you all nothing but the best.
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