Johnny called.

Well, no, he didn't. I don't know anybody named Johnny, but Brant Bjork's song "Johnny Called," just like almost everything else the man's done, makes me feel invincible, laid back, and able to cope with everything life throws at me, and wear a smile the whole time.

Dave called, though. Dave called Bill this afternoon and shot the shit for a while, and man, I gotta say, talkin' to Mr. Clifford is always good for the soul. Sixteen motherfuckin' years of knowing the man has never gotten old; if anything, he and I's friendship is like bourbon still in oak casks, aging nicely and getting stronger with every passing year. I wish him and his fiance Angela the best, though I do feel bad that she has to put up with his ass until death do them part. Har!

My folks are all for me taking Chinese classes come the fall. Pops even offered to cover half the cost of tuition, though I reckon that I won't need to take him up on the offer if I plan accordingly. Maybe if he's still insistent on helping finance my exploration of the Middle Kingdom I can talk him into buying me a copy of the Taoist cookbook I found online. Don't matter, though. I'm just happy knowing my folks will be back in the States for good as of this summer, and that, as always, they're 100% supportive of my endeavors.

All right, folks. Time to try and do a little writing before I go make the scene. Y'all take it easy.

Takk.

Tonight Dave and I saw Sigur Ros live. They are Dave's favorite band, and I'd barely heard any of their music, so we were at opposite ends of the appreciation spectrum, more or less. This changed as soon as I bought an overpriced beer and we took our seats to see and hear Amina, the opening band, play. They were outstanding; I don't think I've ever witnessed such an eclectic, beautiful performance. The sheer brilliance of those four multi-talented musicians was almost overwhelming.

Then came Sigur Ros, with the four ladies of Amina providing additional strings/keys/etc. Holy shit. Like I said, I moved immediately from the unknown end to the amazingly impressed end of the appreciation spectrum. Three or four songs- the first, the last, and a couple in the middle- hit me in ways that I knew were possible, but had never actually experienced in a live music setting. I really don't know how to explain it, but Sigur Ros' performance was like listening to several people play the soundtrack of a beautiful, gut-wrenching movie that was never filmed. It was easily one of the best concerts I've ever seen, and I don't doubt that the memory of it- not as a discrete evening of my life, but more like the memory of the impression it made upon my heart and mind- will remain with me for a long, long time.

Takk, Dave, for bringing me along.

Lit as a Christmas tree.

This sentence is where the proper spelling and grammar stops.

I've bene dr9inking since 1:00 Pm this afternoon. I hyng out with Jodie, who is rad and attractuve and marriedb and I haven't seen in a long time. She drank coffee and I ate sushi and drank beer and all was solid. Afterwards I went out with Linda to the Kelvin arms, which sucked, anf then to Kay's,m which was okay (har!). I'm fucking trashed and am snmoikubg Chesterfields and love Linda with all my heart. Whatrs pathetic ifd that I've tried to clean yp this paragraph to sime degree,mbut my fucking jotun-level intake of beer avec other intoxicants has stoippped. me. I just waqted yall toi know that I am cuplable for shitty writing = cayse I try to clean up my words evenwhen drunkm ,so here goes my credibuluty.


DREAR EABGNGLISH LANGUAGE"" I AM SO FYCKIUBG SOIRRTY

nOW IT'M HGOING YTO READ MOBY FUCKING DICK!

More measured, ex post measured facto: my life is fucked, Fucked, FUCKED.

"open for business"

I'm pretty sure that if I quit smoking and didn't have a job, my blood pressure would be just low enough to sustain my existence. But fuck that shit! I had some solid fun after work with the internet and two killer bastards, both of whom are moving to New Zealand all too soon. Here is proof, with no explanation necessary.



Now it's time to listen to Skepticism and make another attempt to descend the stairs beyond the Cavern of Flame. Good night, world.

P.S. OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT!

A nod to happiness.

Cooking, reading, sitting in the sun shirtless, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes: life, even before going to work, is good.

Fall onto your knees for the Phantom Lord... and not just the Metallica song.

I've lately been thinking, in rather broad and underinformed ways, about the future of Western culture, specifically a) European culture, b) the tremendous growth and expansion of Islam in the Western world and its effects thereupon, and in a totally different vein, c) the relationship between China and the West. Pretty much all of my thought has been framed within history as I understand it, and while this affords me a higher degree of insight than a lot of folks, it's also depressing in a way.

I'm not going to write any more, because the things I mentioned above are things I want to talk to people about, and I need to do way more reading before I can commit anything even halfway thoughtful to paper (er, hard drive).

In other news, I looked into taking introductory Chinese classes at either HCC or U of H, maybe as early as this summer, or the fall at the latest. I do believe that I can afford to take a class, probably at HCC, if my schedule allows. The though of learning a couple hundred radicals and thousands of phonemes just to learn the fuckin' basics of written Mandarin is both exciting and daunting, but hey, how the hell am I ever supposed to read the Tao Te Ching in the original if I don't make an effort? It ain't like I'm Ezra Pound and can teach myself enough Chinese to get anywhere, much less live up to one of the most flattering things anyone's ever inscribed to me in a book. (Which reminds me, Matt, that one of us needs to find out the Chinese word and character(s) for "chandelier.")

Ire.

Fuck condescending shit like this. Heavy metal, lyrics and all, will outlive smarmy cunt-ass journalists and their shit-eating ilk.

Laugh all you want, but the Almighty Riff is eternal. You are not, motherfuckers.

Detectable by its absence.

Been mighty quiet out there lately.

The fog's been so thick tonight it feels like I'm at the bottom of the Lake of Hali.

Doubt and good times.

Never a pleasant face-off, given how much my life is ruled by both of said things.

This weekend's winner is doubt, however, though beloved good times make a solid showing.

My apologies to Swulius Caesar and Mr. Clifford for not calling back in a timely fashion. Circumstances dictated, etc. No thanks to the principle that has simultaneously kept me true to myself and as far away as I am from my beloved. I'm fucked, no matter how much effort and cardiac/mental effort I put forth. I think. Sorry, y'all.

If it's any consolation, I'm drunk and I'm enjoying some fine Texan metal. No, it's no consolation. It never has been and probably never will be...

This is why I stand alone.


now playing: The Sword, Age of Winters

"The Corpse abides."

All is right in the world at this moment, thanks to Andy Link, Haruki Murakami, Karl Sanders, and the late-night silence of Montrose.

Sleep well, folks. I love you all.

Instant messaging: where my meager comedic skills shine most brightly!

[05:55] Alagathradion: "Tricyclos! Speed me to safety!"
[05:55] corpselight: "To Athens, Tricyclos! Posthaste!"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Yeah, it's an in-joke, and it's funny as fuck. Whee!

An interesting look at the field of artificial intelligence.

I was wondering what I'd write here this morning, but extolling the virtues of Skepticism's Farmakon wasn't really in order. The article below, however, is of considerable interest.

The Trouble with the Turing Test

Briefly mentioned in the article is AI/VR cheerleader/developer Jaron Lanier, who pissed me off back in college. I wish I hadn't failed to save the hundreds of journal pages I wrote back then, 'cause I'd sure like to see what I had to say about his response to Wild Palms- which I've never had the pleasure of seeing, alas, but was just familiar enough with back in '99 or whenever to rant about Lanier's comments thereupon. I bet I sounded like the paranoid twit I was, and still kinda am.

Which brings me to another subject entirely, albeit one I'm not in the mood to get into right now: the weird techno-utopian dreams of the 1990s. God, how I wish some of those visionaries had been right, but looking back... shit, I don't know. Like I said, it's not something I want to get into, 'cause if I took the time and did some reading, I could write on the subject extensively (at least from the standpoint of a kid growing up back then, only to become a young adult watching all those ideas and dreams either turn to dust or calcify in corporate offices).

It'd be more interesting if it was Valentinus' Day.

After all, sneaking a holiday (of sorts) into the calendar celebrating one of the preeminent early Gnostics is far more entertaining that the overlaying of a Catholic martyr's (if that particular Valentine is the true source of the day, since there were several St. Valentines) holy day over an ancient Roman festival. Of course, I'd take any saint's day or pagan festival over a shoddy excuse to support consumerism in the name of love.

But let's be honest, shall we? I did indeed play the role of consumer for this pseudo-holiday, albeit not specifically for that reason. Blame Looney Labs for including some very cute plush flowers along with Fluxx cards, which I got for Linda after introducing her to the game last week. You should also blame The Sword for releasing their album on Valentine's Day. This I also purchased.

Even if I really cared about Valentine's Day, I couldn't have done anything to, ahem, celebrate it, because I was working as usual. Sweet Jesus, I'm so tired of night shifts and newsprint.

Adieu, old friends!

More Unheimlich is available for your reading pleasure.

In other news, my new pair of Dr. Martens arrived today, which means that my old pair can now take a much-needed rest in the Tim Finnegan and Dr. Oliver Long Ghost Home for Decrepit Leather Goods. I bought my first pair of Docs at Shelley's in London in 1997, and have worn them incessantly ever since. The $80 I paid for them was some of the best money I ever spent, and here's hoping the new pair- which I had to pay an inflated, outside-of-Englad $120 for- lasts as long at the first.

Take it easy, old boots, and rest assured that you'll never have rainwater soak into your cracked soles again.

Why D.A. Smith is unconquerable, even by his own devices:

Because I can face down the misery of work, mere hours beforehand, and still enjoy myself, courtesy of Linda, Dave, Scott, Julie, Luckies, dry toast, coffee, writing, Lone Star, Shiner Bock, the X-Files, the internet, and my record collection.

While I still yearn to recreate, no matter how half-assedly, certain weekends at 19713, I think I've come as close as possible without being back at that address. It's not the same, of course, and I won't bother trying to describe why I'm fixated on those days- I can't even claim that "if you know me, you'd understand why" and mean it- but I'll be damned if certain elements of my current state of existence don't echo those days.

Sweet Jesus, I love the examined life.

Regarding a certain televised claim of crazy deliciousness:

While I haven't had the particular brand of red licorice known as Red Vines, and Mr. Pibb is nothing but a shoddy Dr Pepper knockoff, I can attest to the gustatory complimentariness of the two basic substances. How? Because I remember drinking Dr Pepper through Twizzlers in middle school. Yum!

"Guard my eighteen Lone Stars!"

Last night Jay, Tracey, and I went to Walter's on Washington to see God's Temple of Family Deliverance, The Sword, Priestess, and Early Man. Of the four bands, the only weak one was Priestess, not because they were bad, but they didn't really seem to fit into the lineup very well. They were more rock n' roll than metal. Anyway, GTFD, who are from here in Houston, were fuckin' killer- loud as hell, slow, doomed out. Austin's The Sword lived up to the hype, and played a tight set. Early Man ripped it up, too, and encored with "War Eagle." Throughout the course of the night, I headbanged myself into a weekend's worth of pain, drank a shitload of beer, got popped in the head by some passing asshole who wasn't watching what he was doing, and met Blacky, the former bassist for Voivod. He was working the merch table for Priestess, who are from Montreal, and I felt like a tool when I didn't realize who he was. He was gracious about it, and signed my jacket just below the Voivod patch affixed thereto.

Jay and Tracey had a good time too. I'm always worried about dragging folks out to metal shows, but both of them were as impressed as I was by GTFD and Early Man, though they missed most of The Sword's set. After the show, we had a drink at the Dirt, then parted ways. I fell asleep watching the X-Files, which was an excellent ending to an excellent day.

Catalyst.

Funny how shit goes down. After getting off work and shootin' the shit with Tracey for a while, I settled in with the laptop and started goofing off, not really intending to write or do much of anything other than find new patches for the denim vest I hope to invest in sometime soon (I can't wear my current hessian denim armor once the weather gets any warmer, and I don't want to swap out all my patches seasonally.) As I poked around online, I happened to stop by the site of The End Records, where I saw one word that made me drop everything to write this quick note and then get down to working on Unheimlich: Ulver.

Listening to Ulver is like reading Philip K. Dick or Bukowski: it makes me want to write. So write I shall, but not before asking something of y'all. How the fuck do I sell more copies of Axis Mundi Sum? I think my publisher's getting antsy about my complete lack of sales. If anyone has any ideas, let me know, and don't hesitate to buy my book as a gift the next time you need to give someone something for their birthday or whatever. Really, I need all the help I can get. I'm being outsold by fucking poets.

Dunkelnacht.

It only lasted an hour or so, but I wish y'all could have been here for the patchy Montrose blackout that occurred around 2:45 AM on February 8, 2006. You wouldn't have known it, but Dave Smith was some kind of alive right then, a corpse walking the neighborhood with candle in hand, dead heart smiling, veins burning with Sangre de Toro wine, lungs thick with the smoke of Karo cigarettes, brain etching patterns into the three-quarters moon and the dark streetlights and houses.

And when the lights came back on, the cadaverous, solitary happiness did not disappear from his clotted heart.

Quiet night.

It's one of those nights where the silence seems to demand something of you, and you end up stopping whatever it is you're doing in order to spend a few minutes ruminating on the vague feeling of dread embedded in the silence.

Hmm.

I still haven't been in the mood to write, by the way.

"Roundabout and roundabout"

"who wants a life anyway?"

The cup of coffee to the slice of cherry pie that was this weekend came when I just checked YouTube, which I've heard much good about lately, for old Elastica videos. Lo and behold, they have the video for "Connection," AKA the reason I got into Elastica and still have a crush on Justine Frischmann. Ah, how memories of being in Kaan Kaplan's family's apartment in the fall of 1994, memorizing the playlists of MTV Latino in order to see Justine's superb sneer, come flooding back!

P.S. I've also been soaking up lots of videos from my Headbangers Ball days, as well as older stuff, like Venom's "Nightmare" and Dokken's "Dream Warriors" videos, that I never got to see. Much obliged, internet!

Folks, folks, beer, and Thin Lizzy

I've had a blast with my parents this weekend. Courtesy of numerous friends of mine, all of whom my folks liked and seemingly vice versa, and plenty of beer and wine (the wine mostly for my mom), there were many good conversations and pleasant afternoons/evenings since Friday. I wish mom and pops were staying longer, and that I could take off time from work to hang out with them, but I'll take what I can get. I'll see 'em this summer before they move to Bogota.

I know I've mentioned my massive appreciate for Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy before, but last night, while driving around with Linda listening to Black Rose, said appreciation increased considerably. The man was, and still is, one of the best rock n' roll songwriters in the history of the form, lyrically and musically. I cannot recommend Thin Lizzy enough.

Gaffe!

I'm glad my folks and I understand each other so well, or else I'd be worried about having asked my mom if her friend drank "Dave Smith levels" of beer.

Sharing is good, but bad.

I got off from my increasingly odious job around midnight, came home, drank beer and played Fluxx with Linda, and, upon her leaving a few minutes ago, found myself out of alcohol. I should've bought more than a sixer this afternoon; if I had, I wouldn't be sitting here trying to ferment pouches of Capri Sun with my mind.

*After a completely legitimate protest from one of the involved parties, I will state that Linda was not responsible for the disappearance of my beer supply. The main problem was that I only had four to begin with, and between two people, four talls go quickly... and I drank 2.5 of those.

Happy birthday, Mr. Joyce.

"But the world, mind, is, was and will be writing its own wrunes for ever, man, on all matters that fall under the ban of our infrarational senses."

Discos metalicos mexicanos.

I just cued up Bloodbath's Nightmares Made Flesh via Windows Media Player and noticed that the cover art supplied by the internet doesn't match that of the digipak I own. I suppose it's because I purchased said album (which is a solid chunk of old-school death metal played by some of the finest death metal artists from Sweden, including- and give me a second to run charmap so I can cough up the proper umlauts- Peter Tägtren, Anders Nyström, and Dan Swanö, among others) in Mexico, where it was released under license by Scarecrow records. I noticed at the time that said label had released a fair amount of worldwide metal, which was excellent. I'd say that knowing that countries like Mexico have dedicated metal distributors is a refreshing and uplifting thought, but in light of my experience with heavy metal in Latin America, any such statement would be patronizing; hell, I've had an easier time finding fairly obsure stuff in standard-issue record stores in Venezuela and Mexico than I have in the States, and some of the shit I used to find in the used CD stores in Caracas was flat-out fuckin' absurd. One simply did not find used copies of A Blaze in the Northern Sky in popular record stores in the US in 1996.

Appending a tangent to a tangent (which is what this entire entry is, seeing as how I really don't know why I even started writing it), I was slightly disappointed that when I visited Mexico D.F. last year that I didn't meet any other headbangers. I reckon I should have spent less time loafing around my folks' apartment if I'd really wanted to socialize, which I didn't, except in hindsight. And, let's face it, one doesn't meet metalheads that often anywhere. (Well, at least anywhere I go- my brother said that the train station in Stockholm was crammed with 'em. Now that's cool.)

Speaking of the folks, they're coming into town Friday, and they're actually sticking around instead of heading up to Uncle Smitty's place. I'm glad I know 'em well enough to not feel any great need to constantly entertain them; as long as mi madre gets to do some shopping and drink some wine, and I keep my pops supplied with coffee and strolls around the neighborhood, all will be well. Man, I can't wait!

*I've been informed that the aforementioned metal-centric train station was not in Stockholm, but Gothenburg. Pardon my failing memory.