It's a bit behind schedule, but it's time for ku ding tea, a cold burrito, the X-Files, and either falling asleep on the couch until 3 PM or crawling into bed at 10 AM after I wake up on the couch, horribly disoriented.

Let's do it.

"Leave the tired world behind."

It's been a good weekend, if you ignore the ever-growing shitstorm surrounding my transportation situation. Alas, I'm beat, so it's time to read some Coleridge and Castles of Steel and hit the sack. The dread spectre of work will solidify in thirteen hours, and I need to rest up in order to fight back.

Apologies for the silence lately. I'd like to say I've been writing, but I've really been hanging out with Lisa, Bridget, and Chris (fine folks all, especially brain-using, balisong-wielding, metal-listening Lisa, but I don't mean that as any sort of disrespect to the others) and playing The Longest Journey, at long last. My brother bought it years ago, and I really wanted to play it, but the appearance of a new girlfriend kept me from doing so. No, not because she gave me shit about playing computer games, but because I didn't want to alienate poor Sara immediately by spending my time directing a rather foxy girl around the screen for days on end. Even I'm not that callous.

I'm heading up to see two of the finest men I've ever met this weekend. That's right: my pops and my uncle. Come Saturday, I'll be in the Piney Woods, shooting the shit, drinking coffee, staring at the stars, blasting holes in a tree with my Kalashnikov, reading history books I'd usually never pick up, and, in the small hours, giving myself writer's cramp as I crank out notes for my next book.

Life is good.

Addendum: The new Dark Tranquillity and (I may have mentioned this already, but fuck it) High on Fire records are worth every motherfucking penny. Personally, I'm in awe at how well the albums compliment each other when your mood changes after a few songs. Metal uber alles.

Another one of those mornings where I'm awake and don't really want to be. I hope I don't sleep too damned late, since I've got shit to do tomorrow.

This morning, my brother noted this morning that he's got tentative plans to move out this summer. I can't blame him; I know that (in no particular order) my ferrets and habits get on his nerves fairly often. I myself have daydreamed lately, usually while walking around Montrose, of finding a place of my own, which I will populate with the handful of material goods I call my own, the ferrets, empty tallboys, and music.

I'm not looking forward to the possibility of moving again. I'm tired of it. Maybe this is my chance to just hotfoot my ass somewhere else, though I sure as hell ain't gonna bet on it.

At least he mentioned it sooner than later, so I have some time to dig up a new address and, if need be, a roommate.

Other than that: I can't wait for warmer weather, my car to get out of the shop, my eventual trip to Mexico City, and this weekend.

Life is all right. True believers know how to apply the proper inflection to the last two words of that phrase.

Sweet Gnostic God Who Reigns Beyond the Grasp of the Demiurge, the new High on Fire record is amazing. I'm gonna have "Sons of Thunder" played at my funeral, which I will have to rearrange in order to do justice to this song.

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

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

BÖC is better than, well, almost anything.

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

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

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

Enough of this rambling shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take it easy, folks.

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

Or so I hope.

Interesting prognostication re: future of media.

Today: writing.

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

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

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

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

Anyone want to give me a lot of money?

This isn't fiction, folks.


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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace is watching Bob Ross.

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

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

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

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

Bullshit.

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

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

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

Drunk, concerned, and angry at invisible enemies,

Dave Smith

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't drink this shit, folks. Ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

It's casual.

It's casual, but not that casual.

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

Fuck yeah.

I was trying to write a witty joke comparing Scientology with an implausible amalgamation of the Stalin-era Soviet Union, Nazi Germany, New Age hucksters, and anything else that sounded good, but I'll be damned if the joke doesn't write itself.

Go read Andy's newest, and incredibly good, work in progress.

Christmas has come and gone, and it was good. Not ideal, since my folks aren't in the country and I have to go back to work tomorrow, but there's no point in complaining. I enjoyed the company of good people, including some I haven't seen in a while, received some excellent gifts, and gave some gifts of my own, which I think people liked. Thanks to everyone who made Christmas what it was.

While life is good, I've had a very uneasy feeling all night. I'm sure it'll pass, but man, I wish it would hurry up about it. I'd also like to pinpoint what's causing it, but that's not likely, so I think I'll just read.

2L45 AM on Christmas Day.

I wish all of you, and the world beyond, an exceptional Christmas. Enjoy your time while you can, fellow wageslavesl

While barely resembling any of the Christmases of my past, I think this year's celebration is off to a good start. You can't beat getting off of work two hours early, coming home, drinking beer, enjoying some burl sense, hanging out with friends, getting good emails, waxing emotional over music, daydreaming, watching the X-Files, eating homemade meatloaf and macaroni and cheese, and falling asleep on the couch.

N.B. I'm only falling asleep on the couch- and not getting up at eight or nine in the morning, because I often fall asleep on the couch and have to move myself into my room- because I can't afford to miss the UPS delivery tomorrow. There are some Christmas gifts in there for some pretty worthwhile folks, and like any sane person, I don't want to drive thirty minutes out of my way to pick them up next week.

Take it easy, folks, and should you not hear from me in person, or read this anytime soon, Merry Christmas and happy holidays. Revel in the company of your loved ones, friends, and family.

-Dave

Feel like writing or receiving an honest-to-God, pen-and-paper letter? Then give me your address, and I'll give you mine, with the condition that we at least send out the occasional postcard with more than a dozen words scrawled upon it. I miss written correspondence, especially of the lengthy variety.

(Thanks to H.P. Lovecraft and company for renewing my long-quiet interest in letters.)

I've got four separate packages heading my way, all of which have been shipped and none of which have arrived. Given that only one of these packages contains anything for myself, I am especially annoyed that none of them are here yet. The time of year probably has something to do with the tardiness of my mail, but should Friday arrive and I am still empty-handed, I am going to be very angry at the USPS and UPS.

Let's hope that people decide to lay off advertising in the Greensheet this week, at least a little bit. I don't feel like devoting much of my time and energy to work, which, of course, should come as no surprise, but people should also sit back and enjoy what passes for a Christmas holiday among non-students.

Bare-Faced Messiah, the less than glowing biography of L. Ron Hubbard, just gets more and more interesting- and incredible. The things that people will (or will not) do for a charismatic fellow man are astonishing, sometimes revoltingly so.

Some statements:

Sometimes my nocturnal schedule is perfect, in that I am usually guaranteed time alone after everyone else retires for the night.

The girl who works at Nan's is cute as hell and I want to ask her out.

My friends are top-notch.

The Animatrix puts forth all the good ideas that the Matrix films failed to capitalize on or ignored entirely.

Ulver is perfect night music.

Somehow, without the knowledge of a future Pete, I managed to obtain this brief interview with myself at the age of 75. Actually, Pete might know about it, but since he's busy living his mid-21st century life, he probably just didn't get around to letting us in the present in on the discovery.

The interviewer isn't mentioned by name, so I've designated him "I" for simplicity's sake. Here goes.

--

I: So, Dave, how's life?

Dave: Man, I'm tired. Being old is an ass-kicker, and I reckon I've still got another seventy-five years or so before I call it a day. Damn.

I: Seventy-five? I know life extension's come a long way, but that's still pretty impressive. Do you foresee the current generation living to 200 or longer?

Dave: This has nothing to do with life extension, and I stopped paying attention to what's going on with younger folks after some little shit sent me a bomb back in '36. He apparently wasn't too happy that I wasn't writing very much, so he sent me a Hickory Farms Christmas box filled with black powder, nails, and broken glass.

I: You're kidding. How did you survive that?

Dave: Because the kid forgot to put a fuse in with the explosives.

I: Wow. I guess having your life threatened by your audience might potentially make you turn your back on them.

Dave: No, it was the kid's stupidity. I'm ashamed that this kid, who enclosed a note saying how much he liked my first novel, forgot something as basic as the fucking fuse. Even when I was young- in my twenties, say- I didn't hold out a lot of hope for folks younger than myself. After that shitty bomb, I just gave up on them completely, just like I gave up on politics, coffee shops, and every post-mp3/DVD audio format.

I: So what are you doing these days? Still writing?

Dave: Still dabbling is more like it. I still read a lot. Drink beer. Cruise around in the Judge or the six-five. I collect turntables too.

I: Turntables?

Dave: Come on, you know what a turntable is. I don't collect them for any reason other than to cannibalize them for parts, though. The only things I collect, so to speak, are spent shell casings, empty beer cans, and the occasional royalty check from my writing.

I: Wait, shell casings? I know you still drink beer-

Dave: Yeah, those liver filters are the best things that ever happened to me. Well, and the cancer pseudo-vaccine.

I: But what about the shell casings? Do you own a gun?

Dave: I'm not answering that, for obvious legal reasons. But yeah, I've got about 100,000 spent shell casings. 7.62x39. I'm hoping to find someone who will eventually fuse them all together to build my coffin, and maybe my headstone as well. Want a beer?

I: No thanks.

Dave: Your loss, dude.

I: I'm curious as to your opinion of-

Dave: Come on, dude, I'm not that interested in offering my opinion to strangers. You should know that, if you've followed my life and career at all.

I: All right. That sounds kind of cynical, though.

Dave: Maybe it is. Or maybe you could just call me Johannes de Silentio. Or just more interested in takin' it easy and sitting on the porch.

I: So you're still an advocate of idleness?

Dave: Did you expect me to have an epiphany and start busting my ass?

I: No, but you have a family, and-

Dave: Christ on a crutch, who the hell chose you to do this interview? Of course I've got a family, but I'm seventy-fucking-five years old, and the kids have been taking care of themselves for years. Ask me a decent question, please.

I: Sorry. Okay. Are you happy?

Dave: I reckon I am. I don't have to do much except kick back, drink beer, read, and think a lot, so I've pretty much achieved my life's goals.

I: Those don't seem like very... complex goals.

Dave: I dare you to quit your job and fuck off for the rest of your life. I bet you couldn't handle it. I've got a question for you, son.

I: Um, okay.

Dave: Why is asking old fucks like me questions any more complex or fulfilling than trying to answer questions about your own life? Don't get me wrong, I like a good interview or novel or essay as much as the next guy, if not more, but really, wouldn't you rather take some time and engage in a little introspection?

I: Well, yes, but-

Dave: But you're too busy trying to build a career and leave a legacy. Fuck it, dude. I don't feel like giving a lecture right now.

I: Okay.

Dave: You ever seen a GTO?

I: What's that?

Dave: I knew that's what you'd say. You into cars?

I: Uh, not really.

Dave: Me neither, but the 1970 GTO Judge is the finest car ever made. Before you ask, yes, it runs on gasoline, not hydrogen.

I: I thought they outlawed those.

Dave: Maybe where you're from, but not in Texas. They've still got the old twentieth-century oil economy mindset. Anyway, fuck this interview. You wanna go cruise?

I: Sure. Can I bring the recorder along?

Dave: Why not? Let me get my cigarettes and a CD. Yes, I still have a CD player. I'm seventy-fuckin'-five, and I'm not gonna shell out for anything newer, especially since nobody could install a new system in the Judge without fuckin' it up. Come on, dude, let's hit it.

--

Looks like being old will kick ass.

Having a few drinks, swallowing half a bar, and going to some sort of half-assed fetish show at what used to be a gay club makes for an interesting nights. There's plenty of eye candy, which is good because the Xanax turned me in a slow-moving automaton. Not that this was a bad thing at all. I was quite detached from my surroundings, and everyone except whatever half- or mostly-naked women were on stage at the time seemed like a blank shell of a human being, a cardboard cut-out with a drink in their hand. Quite an interesting experience, and the first I've had with the aforementioned pill that didn't just make me want to fall asleep within a couple hours.

In other news, the new Unleashed album is fuckin' great.

Strolling down West Alabama at 7 AM to buy beer is a peaceful experience. There's not much traffic. The air is clear. Slightly sullen kids and paint-spattered old men ride by on bicycles. The seemingly condemned apartment complex at 1707 appears even more desolate and compelling. And, if you're walking down the right side of the street, you may even encounter the mutilated remains of what appears to be a manicotti or ravioli, a bludgeoned orangey mess smeared a good foot and a half across the pavement.

I've been pondering my fate as a writer lately. Given that I've gone almost a year without producing any new work of substance, and have put very little effort into promoting my existing work, I can't help but ask myself a few questions, namely:

-Is there anything that I'm really compelled to write about?

-Is my love of idleness (and drink, to be honest) eroding my authorial motivation entirely?

-Why, really, do I even write?

As pessimistic as these questions may sound, expressions as they are of the continual doubt at the core of my being, I do have some tentative answers.

-Yes, kind of;

-no, not entirely, as a considerable break from self-inflicted pressure to write may actually be helping me;

-Because it is my sole means of expression, and despite all failed attempts at writing, I feel the need to (at the very least) console myself with the notion that I have something to say through the written word, even if it is never read by others.

Really, though, I don't actually worry about this matter very much. I suppose it's come to mind recently due to the rather ex post facto realization that my authorial brain is on vacation and hasn't bothered to purchase a return ticket yet.

It looks like the sun has managed to crawl out of bed, take a piss, light a cigarette, and settle in for a day's worth of emitting radiation, so I'm going to go join it.

Remember to purchase Axis Mundi Sum for your friends, enemies, loved ones, and strangers this Christmas, and take it easy.

H.P. Lovecraft makes the finest bedtime reading I've ever come across.

Ah, if only I could enjoy crawling into a warm bed with a good book and leaden lids every night for the rest of my life.

Hot-cha.

The Corpse is now exercising his Second Amendment right, thanks to the Romanian AK-47 purchased for him by his brother. Snitches, counterrevolutionaries, and shitheads beware.

Slayer kicked tons of ass tonight. Unfortunately, the show started earlier than I'd expected, and I didn't get the chance to see Mastodon, who I really wanted to see live. Slayer's "wall of blood" effect wasn't used, either, which kinda sucked, but hardly ruined the show.

Andy sent me a link to an out-of-print book about L. Ron Hubbard, Bare-Faced Messiah, that's been released online. It promises to be quite interesting, and worth the inevitable eye strain. Speaking of reading, I really need to do more. I'm working on a couple books, but without much dedication. Just another sign of my recent, and not entirely unpleasant, mental torpor.

And another week begins. Yee-haw. At least I've got another four-day weekend coming up, and on one of those days, I get to see Slayer.

Good things in the immediate future aside, I'd still rather not go to work at all. Sleeping sounds a lot better, and clearly more useful.

Remember to buy Axis Mundi Sum for everyone this Christmas!

I know I've mentioned it before, but...

Peter, thanks for those handful of days I got to spend at your house alone, and thanks for always being one of my best friends.

I wish that both of us were a few years older, so that we could have enjoyed the Internet Bubble before it so rudely burst.

A million thanks to all of my friends of all stripes. You keep me sane and happy, though to fair, I wish you'd hook me up with some dames. I could use a kiss.

I either need to a) stop listening to Avril Lavigne, or b) get a life. Maybe I need to do both.

No matter what the case, I would really like to fall in love. Unlike what bullshit vidoes imply, strolling and/or loafing around town will not produce love. I really want to say "fuck this world," but the last time I fell in love, it was under highly expected circumstances, so who knows? Maybe I will meet a top-notch chick over a beer, an Avril Lavigne song, or staring at Starbucks employees at 6:30 AM (which, oddly enough, I've done more than once, thinking about how pitiable they are).

I'm a chump. Always have been, and always will be.

No big deal.

My brother's been installing Linux all weekend, so I've been without Internet access. I can't really complain, since there's not really a whole lot of time-sensitive information awaiting me online, and I've spent my time reading, being grotesquely lazy (and, off and on, slightly ill), and, today, eating (well, drinking) brunch with multiple Swulii, Sara, and Jackie. (I'm not sure how the latter spells her name, however.)

Various new ideas for the next novel are cropping up from time to time, and I'm trying to keep track of them with pen and paper. Making notes makes me feel less like I'm failing my art, and indeed even makes me feel like I'm doing myself some good, since the last couple novels weren't exactly thought out before I began writing them.

Speaking of my previous books, I've come up with an excellent idea for Christmas. Everyone I know should purchase a copy of Axis Mundi Sum as their Christmas gift to someone else. Naturally, people who already own copies are excluded from receiving them, but it would be a nifty idea, and I'd be willing to sign any and all copies that came my way. Instead of shirts, socks, immediately-obsolete electronic gadgetry, or mass-market paperbacks, buy Axis Mundi Sum for your friends and loved ones. I'd sincerely appreciate it.

Lastly- and this applies to none of the people who read this regularly, as far as I know- tolerance for the sake of not looking like an asshole is asenine. Then again, so is being a dick just to be a dick.

Good night.

Avril Lavigne's version of Metallica's otherwise tepid "Fuel" makes me think of X. She doesn't sound identical to Exene, and the riffs aren't exactly Billy Zoom material, but for some reason I draw the comparison. Now that I think about it, I'd like to hear how X would interpret the song, though it would never happen.

Ah, Madamoiselle Lavigne. The creation of the skewed demiurge that is the pop music industry, but nonetheless highly appealing. Enjoying her work has to be one of my few pleasant dips into the shallow pool of popular culture. And for those of you who may frown on said dip, fuck off: even my metal-lovin' cretin ass can fall for gorgeous young pop stars from time to time. I await the day that I can ply Madamoiselle Lavigne with Lone Star, ferrets, and metal, then make out with her. Yep, that would be sweet.

On an unrelated note, my speakers are incredibly shitty, but sometimes they do exactly what they should do, i.e. crank out a wall of almost completely undifferentiated sound. Shit, I'd almost be willing to say that this High On Fire song sounds strangely similar to the way it did the last time I saw them live.

Time for more intoxicants.

Oh, man, I'm not gonna be worth a shit this Thanksgiving. It's 7:13 AM and I still haven't gone to bed. Good thing I have no obligations.

I finally heard back from the literary agency that's showed some interest in Critical Hits lately.

They offered me a contract.

I'm not going to accept it.

They want money up front, and as much of a newbie as I am when it comes to the writing game, I know that such a request is bullshit. I meant to do some research on these people last week, but never got around to it. Minutes after getting their email, I googled them, and the only good remarks I found were made by the authors they represent. Other aspiring writers had nothing to offer but scathing rebukes and condemnations. Nowhere on their site is there a list of books they've sold to publishers.

I could go on with my list of complaints, but it's not worth the effort. I learned early on that any agent that wants money from you before they even sell your work is a fucking thief, and that's all I need to know.

Back to the drawing board.

12:30 PM-2:30 PM: Wake up after going to bed at 7 AM.
2:30 PM-4:00 PM: Drink available liquids, smoke cigarettes, read email, talk online with diurnal people, groom as needed, watch X-Files or Buffy, dread work.
4:00 PM-2:30 AM: Watch dignity and sanity ooze from orifices. Mentally shake fist at co-workers and customers and everyone in between. Smoke and read at all possible opportunities. Spend 45-minute lunch break running home simply to avoid being at work.
2:30 AM-7 AM: Come home, drink all available beer in sight, fail to write, and do metric tons of nothing until 5:30 or so, when it is time to watch more X-Files/Buffy. Go to bed at dawn, possibly after walking around the neighborhood to purchase food items, and almost always wondering "what the fuck."

Repeat for four days in a row, follow up with an alcoholic blur ofa three-day weekend, and you'll be me, D.A. Smith. The D.A. stands for "Domo Arigato," as in "domo arigato for nothing, you miserable shitfuck world."

Nah. I'm kind of enjoying the bizarre blank space that is my life.

I'm trying to imagine a single situation that wouldn't be improved by the presence of a cold beer, and nothing is coming to mind. I wish I had a beer right now, but no, I've got three hours until I can buy more.

Because I have no beer, can't tell if I'm really in the mood to write, and don't feel like watching Buffy, I've engrossed myself in my new favorite thing on the internet. Read and enjoy.

I think I'm actually bored.

Slowly-typed line by slowly-typed line, guzzled beer by guzzled beer, murky thought by murky thought, what may be my new novel is appearing before me on this screen.

Dark Tranquillity's Damage Done is one of the finest albums I have purchased in the past two years. While not summertime fare, it is most definitely an album for days and nights like these. You should purchase it, as well as a copy of Axis Mundi Sum, which would make an excellent Christmas gift. When you buy it for your friends and loved ones, you should also include a copy of Len Bracken's Aphorisms Against Work, because everyone needs to read it.

Fuck work.

Slowly-typed line by slowly-typed line, guzzled beer by guzzled beer, murky thought by murky thought, what may be my new novel is appearing before me on this screen.

Dark Tranquillity's Damage Done is one of the finest albums I have purchased in the past two years. While not summertime fare, it is most definitely an album for days and nights like these. You should purchase it, as well as a copy of Axis Mundi Sum, which would make an excellent Christmas gift.

A week's worth of poor sleeping habits and unusual mental lassitude have not, as they may in a fictional creation, culminated in anything particularly meaningful, but only a persisent, low-level discombobulation and sense of being at odds (although not necessarily in a negative sense) with the world around me. This is acceptable, because I briefly worried that I was once again moving toward the anxiety that I've run into every now and then over the last couple of years. I think that I've avoided that gnawing fate for the time being, however.

You may notice that my last post has vanished. In the cold light of day-after sobriety, the piece has been judged and found unworthy of continued existence. But fear not; there will inevitably be another another late night infused with too much alcohol and a different proper noun to rant about.

Man, I'm not gonna do shit today except drink water and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Shit fire and save matches! Apparently I forgot that the literary agency that wanted to hear more about my work was the one I actually submitted a manuscript to. I got a standard "info received" email this evening after sending in the author intake form they wanted, and it mentioned going over my manuscript. "Hmm," sez I, "how are they going to review my manuscript when I... aw, fuck."

While this is a damned good start to the submission process, I'm terrified. Not so much because Critical Hits is a piece of shit, or because I'm afraid of rejection, but because whatever response I get will be a surprise. Had I remembered that this particular agency actually got my manuscript, I'd be prepared, but I'm not, and it's a creepy feeling. If the response is positive... fuckin' A.

I've puked up another tepid RPG.net column. Judging from some of the comments, I get the impression that at least one of the poor saps that reads the column likes Bush, but doesn't understand Hunter S. Thompson very much. Eh.

I'm playing the waiting game with a literary agency now, having sent back the stuff they requested about Critical Hits, and with Nuclear Blast Records, who really need to haul some ass and get the new Cathedral record out. I don't feel like waiting several months for it.

Last night, as I crawled into bed at 6 AM after falling asleep on the couch watching the X-Files, I had some really good ideas about my possible next novel, but I failed to write them down. Unsurprisingly, I can't remember them now.

I've discovered the pleasure that is watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, thanks to Jennifer. I foresee spending the next three months or so watching the entire run of the show, or possibly longer if I don't maintain my current viewing schedule. As hokey as certain elements of the first season have been, the show's really a lot better than I ever expected it to be, and I dare say I'm learning something from it. Not about vampires or the like, but from the basic narrative structure, which is something I've always had a poor grasp on.

I wish I had a camera so I could take a picture of the wasteland that is my desk.

Despite running on five hours' uneasy sleep, my weekend is already off to a good start. Came home from work and stayed up until eight in the morning in the company of, at various times, my brother, Jen, and Eric. Slept, listened to Dr. Long Ghost push a jingling ball of a ferret toy around the house, got up, talked to people online and via phone, and am currently working on response to literary agent, while listening to the almighty Thin Lizzy. Weather is perfect, beer is flowing, cigarettes are smoldering. Life is good.

Now that the election is over and I've run the gamut of mental and emotional responses (as my last few posts show), it feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. There's no more doubt about the fate of the nation- it's screwed- so I reckon I can get back to concentrating on the things I want to concentrate on.

Sorry for the bitching and moaning yesterday (well, this morning), but until American stupidity provokes me again, I'll lay off.

I've posted this to the commentary (AKA "blog") area on MySpace, but I feel the need to post it here. It's not exactly enlightening, but it sheds some illumination on things for those who don't really know me. (I suspect there is exactly one of you that fits this category.)

As noted:

---

As lonely as they were at times, I yearn for the simple moments that comprised the weekends of my first year at SHSU. I miss getting a ride home on Friday nights from my pops, shooting the shit, drinking RC, eating grocery store pizza, going to Half Price Books, watching the X-Files, hearing the AC thrum, sleeping on the couch or in the computer room. I miss that house, and in my mind, it has been, and will be, the setting of many a story. I dare say that I'd live there again, except that I know it wouldn't be the same. It's not 1997-2001 anymore, my brother and father no longer live there, and, as oddly attached to the suburbs as I am, I know I could never do the place the justice it deserves, locus of good memories that it is.

I still drive by it almost every time I visit Spring, though. While Spring is a cancerous place these days, nothing can ruin the places of my youth, save their complete destruction.

Viva Spring 1991-1994, and, more intermittently, 1997-2001. If it wasn't for Bridgestone and Bridgestone West, I would not be who I am.

Before I break down, I'm going to go watch the X-Files.

----

Sometimes I miss being twelve, and other times I miss being eighteen or nineteen. Does everyone feel this way? I really think that I would derive considerable pleasure from once again spending weekends screwing around on a dial-up connection, reading, drinking coffee, and watching cable TV, all in the company of various family members, especially in the house at 19713 Westbridge.

If I ever get rich, I think I'll buy that house, and several other houses in the area.

I need to get out of this room and watch the X-Files. The urge to collapse in a heap of melancholy is overwhelming.

I'm going to wait until the real results, not those posited by the media, are in, before I make any statements about this fucking election.

I feel no shame now for not having voted anymore.

As I, quoting Len Bracken, have said before, Nobody wins in 2004. Fuck this shit and the ignorance than fuels it. To hell with oil- ignorance is the fossil fuel this world relies on, and will continue to rely on until aliens turn us into slaves or we murder the beautiful planet God gave us.

And no, you miserable cunts, I wouldn't be happy if Kerry ended up winning, but it would be nice to have a bandage to cover the hemorrage that is America over the past four years.

FUCK. On one hand, mankind deserves better, but on the other, I have yet to see it do anything en masse to prove itself.

This is addressed to myself and God, and is an expression of not only politics (which, actually, play an incredibly minimal part, but have brought me to this point on this night), but so many frustrations and questions that have plagued me for years. You all can hear it, for the sake of understanding me a little better.

WHY? WHY? WHY IS HUMANITY SO SELF-DEFEATING? WHY DOES THE SEARCH FOR MEANING REQUIRE SUCH MISERY?

Damn, I want to just break down and weep. Humanity has done so many amazing things, only to drown them in blood and piss and ignorance. The only thing I can do, as meaningless as it may be, is to keep creating myself, pouring out what I can to add to the stream of meaningfulness.

I realize that I'm in no way coherent, thanks to many beers, but fuck it. The sentiment is there.

Philosophy can be cold comfort, but I'll really find out when I go to bed soon.

Allow me to correct myself. Today the hammer comes down on not only the United States, but the entire world. All six billion of us, give or take a few, will feel the repercussions. The winner of the election merely determines how quickly and resoundingly the hammer will strike the anvil.

I'm no fan of the eschaton, and I don't know how imminent it is, but it's hard to convince myself it's not inevitable.

The hammer comes down on the United States today. I'm terrified to see what kind of horrible fate my countrymen will inflict upon themselves.

I've once again spent a weekend doing little of tangible value. Saw Natalie on Friday, which was fun, and went to Huntsville later that evening, which was also worthwhile. Did virtually nothing Saturday except drink and watch the X-Files, having recovered my collection of tapes from Darcy in Huntsville. Yesterday I watched Donnie Darko, which was incredible and disturbing, and made notes on what may be my next novel.

I reckon the big news around here is that I heard back from one of the literary agencies I fired a query letter off to. They haven't asked for more than additional information about myself and my novel, but it's the brightest prospect I've had so far. I may get lucky and get far enough to send them my manuscript, but I'm not holding my breath. It does make me a bit more confident about my work, however.

I really don't want to go to work.

All right, folks. I'm taking the time to type out the lyrics to a song here, so do me a favor and listen to it. If need be, you can drop by my place and hear it; otherwise, buy the album. It's money well spent.

I like to think of the subject of this song as "Dave's conspiracy theory girlfriend." Naturally, I have no such girlfriend, but a man can dream, can't he?

The Hidden Hand
"Coffin Lily"
from Mother Teacher Destroyer, Southern Lord Records, 2004.

In the pale blue light she thrives.
Velvet curtains no light shines.
High speed connection keeps her alive.
She's an adept of the night.

Hey Hey what she sees. A premonition
of the conspiracy. Hey Hey what
she knows. 33 degres at
bohemian grove.

Her daddy's from a Martian sea.
Mommy's Sycambrian. Her lord's a
Nibiru king. All things Merovingian.

Hey Hey what she sees. Her burning
heart is wrapped in tragedy. Hey Hey
the path she takes. A solar barge
out to China lake.

The Hidden Hand's newest album, Mother Teacher Destroyer, and Lair of the Minotaur's Carnage, finally arrived in the mail today. While I haven't listened to either one all the way through, I can safely say that my anticipation was completely warranted.

This is a good morning, and knowing that I only have one night of work left before the weekend only makes it better.

I'm probably jinxing myself by speaking too soon, but fuck it:

It's coming.

Let's hope it doesn't stop until it's as solid as, albeit nowhere like, what I saw at the end of my sophomore year of college.

Cryptic, I know, but they don't call them veiled words for nothing. And this is very much about words.

When I meet a woman who can make me as consistently happy as the Almighty Riff- and I'm not writing this as an homage to the Almighty Riff so much as a testament to the horribly fickle nature of females, and any charges of sexism be damned- I will be happy.

Sweet Jesus, humanity can be one hell of a disappointment.

I've had it for a couple months now, and Morgion's Cloaked By Ages, Crowned In Earth, while not something I listen to with any great frequency, gets better every time I hear it. At times, it reminds me, of all things, of Metallica's Master of Puppets, which to this day strikes chords in me that no other album does.

Don't think that Morgion is at all like Metallica, though. Far from it. Cloaked By Ages, Crowned In Earth is a slow, doomy record, but not of the Cathedral/Sabbath variety. It's much more in tune with, say, old My Dying Bride material, i.e., doomdeath, which is something I haven't listened to in years, but still plucks certain heartstrings. If you're not a metal fan, I can't really describe this album (or any of the metal albums I rave about, for that matter), but that's not important. If you want a late-night/early morning experience that doesn't involve your standard soundtrack, you may want to pick this up, especially if the weather is cool, the sky is grey, and you're willing to let your consciousness move into more fantastical realms. This all sounds cliche, but I'll be damned if it's not the truth as I see it, which may not be aligned with any universal truth, but, I like to think, actually is on some level.

Dave Mann, if you're reading this, here's the fucking psychogeographical core of Houston we've been hunting for, courtesy of Hunter S. Thompson:

" Houston is a cruel and crazy town on a filthy river in East Texas with no zoning laws and a culture of sex, money and violence. It's a shabby sprawling metropolis ruled by brazen women, crooked cops and super-rich pansexual cowboys who live by the code of the West -- which can mean just about anything you need it to mean, in a pinch."

Read Thompson's full article here.

Last night at work, in addition to my usual proofreading duties, I was asked to proof a set of mugshots for the Harris County Sheriff's Department/Crime Stoppers. I spent a good hour double-checking one set of mugshots and basic data of fugitives- 56 of them- against the info provided by the Sheriff's Department. Fifty-six people, wanted for everything from aggrevated assault to forgery to capital murder to indecency with a child to felony theft.

The Greensheet occasionally prints outside jobs, and this was one of them. It was the first time I'd seen the most-wanted list in our queue, so I was surprised, but it was a good change from looking at ads all night. It was weird, though, looking at all those faces and trying to imagine them committing the crimes they were wanted for. Some of the fugitives were younger than me, some looked perfectly normal, and some seemed like total incongruities, like the old Chinese guy wanted for assault with a deadly weapon. I started putting together stories about these people in my head, and I think that when I have the time I'm going to actually do something with them.

I also realized last night that I talk to an inordinate number of schizophrenics during the week. Since the Greensheet offices are downtown, and a mere block from the bus station, all manners of homeless and/or unemployed folks wander the streets, many of whom hit me up for cigarettes or change when I'm on a break outside. A significant percentage of them seem to suffer from one mental disorder or another, and I often wonder how their brain chemistry differs from mine. Since I'll probably never find out, I just talk to 'em and try to treat them like anyone else; this can be tough, though, when you think the guy you're talking to is gonna drop his pants and show you the hernia lurking near his genitals.

While work will inevitably disrupt the flow of an otherwise pleasant day, I will leave you with the things that have made this afternoon what it is:

Neal Stephenson's Q&A on Slashdot

and

Negura Bunget. Incredible Romanian black metal, complete with beautiful visuals of Transylvania on their site. I need to find somewhere to buy their albums.

I'm getting better at keeping myself in a good mood, but I'm sure as hell a failure when it comes to cutting back on my cigarette intake.

In approximately 84 hours, I should be relaxing at my uncle's place in deep East Texas. It's just too bad that I won't have a dame along who'll be interested in watching Headbangers Ball and/or Uranium on satellite TV.

Literature 2, Despair 0:

"And what's the point of waking up in the morning if you don't try to match the enormousness of the known forces in the world with something powerful in your own life?" -Don DeLillo, Underworld

After a day of discontent- something just didn't feel right, and my ire can be clearly seen in my last post- I crawled into bed with copy of P.G. Wodehouse's The Jeeves Omnibus, and I have emerged only to say that once again, good writing has buoyed my spirits. Thank God.

Well, this weekend hasn't lived up to my expectations, but that's hardly surprising. I drank a lot Friday and spent yesterday hung over and feeling shitty until I went to bed; I don't think it was only the booze, either. A hangover wouldn't have accounted for the mental malaise that lurked around me all day. I did get some query letters out, and watched Chungking Express, which was even better than the first time I saw it, so the day wasn't a total waste of consciousness.

I really want to see the series on the myth of terror this article is talking about. While I doubt it will change the minds of any fear-mongering politicians in Britain, it would be nice, especially if it had enough of an impact to make Britain think twice about having jumped on the terror bandwagon being driven by this country's cadre of conniving liars and whores.

I've been thinking a lot about why regular people lend their support to governments and/or political parties that, at their core, do nothing to represent the interests of the aforementioned regular people. The way I see it is that people are subjected to so much false or distorted information that they are no longer aware of the underlying reality. Not only the government and media feed this information to them; their churches, workplaces, families, and pop culture also inform their views. The real problem isn't that there are so many lies being circulated, it's that nobody wants to go to the effort of sorting the truth out. It's simply easier to believe what the President, or the newsanchor, or the pastor, or the parent, says. That way, no nasty little tidbits of information that run contrary to one's established worldview come to light, and no extra thought need be applied. I have no sympathy for those who breathe in the atmosphere of deceit without ever coughing, but it's nevertheless sad that the people that have the most to lose by uncritically accepting what's fed to them are the ones who ask the least questions.

On a larger scale- and this is where I'm at odds with a great deal of people- is the issue of belied in grand concepts. For now, I'll deal with the State. Assuming that some sort of central government is useful- another idea I'm not particularly convinced of, but I'll save that for later- I do not believe that unwavering allegiance to said government ("the State") is anything less than idiotic. The Founding Fathers would agree with me that never questioning one's government, or better yet, failing to be critical at all times, is foolish in the extreme, as such behavior leads to the individual being exploited by the State. If your government says jump, you should not ask how high; you should ask why jumping is necessary. Of course, a democratic State may allow you ask that question, but should you do so, you risk the condemnation of the State and its supporters, because the State does not want to be questioned. If it is questioned, then its viability is also in question, and those who profit from the existence of the State- politicians, for example- are threatened. It's better to create an image that the State is every man's friend, and that everyone should do their part for the State, even if said part is something unnecessary and/or odious, like, say, travelling across the globe to engage in war on another State that threatens the interests of your State- but not the citizens thereof. The citizens of both states get screwed because of a handful of people at the top. The absurdity is that the State does a fine job of convincing its constituents that it's acting in their best interest, and they totally buy it, because the State has been preparing them for such thinking since it started funding their education at the age of five or six. It's brilliant, actually, how good a job the state does of creating those who will support it, and allowing a modicum of "dissent" to make itself look magnanimous. Of course, the State has the support of any other number of allies, such as the media, the Church, the "market," and so forth. Since they all suckle on one another's bilious teats, it is in their collective interest to butress the opinions and actions of one another. That way, such groups profit from the shallow desires and beliefs they've created for the average person, who consumes them voraciously and without regard for any implicit meanings.

Fuck. I'm not really in the mood to be writing this, since thousands of people have done a better job of it than I. None of this is revelatory; people have railed against the bankruptcy of the State and similiar ideas for ages. I suppose that I've written what I have because, at this point in time, so few seem to acknowledge that even the least radical notions I've put forth, e.g. the deceit and hypocrisy of the government and media, exist at all. Once again, futility rears its ugly stone head, but you know what? Fuck futility. It might actually turn out to be the beast at the end of the road, but right now, I'm going to keep going. I don't think it's futile for people to think critically, despite any results thereof. In my case, I'm happy to have come to the point where I can see the State as a painfully manipulative, callous thing, knowing full well that it would be so much easier to accept the idea that the government acts in my best interest or that the media is being honest to me. It's not fun thinking that the conclusions I've reached could be wrong, and that I'm in a complete minority by giving minimal credibility to the government, but I take consolation in having tried to sort out the truth from the lies. Unlike a lot of people, I've fucking tried, and I'm willing to admit that I'm wrong. I might not participate in American democracy like the rest of you, but at least my knee doesn't jerk very much anymore.

The drudgery of work aside, today's been fucking sweet. Nice weather. Beer. William Gibson posting online again. Two new album purchases: Current 93 and, hell fucking yeah, Destroyer 666.

I suspect this weekend will be top notch.

William Gibson is, ahem, blogging again. Check it out. Not only is he a fantastic writer, but he's got his shit together in every other respect as well.

If you're a regular BoingBoing reader, you'll appreciate Wiley Wiggins' wry comments on BoingBoing Lite. You can only handle Cory Doctorow's increasingly tiresome flow of semi-self-aggrandizing copyright/DRM links for so long before you wish that he'd just shut the fuck up. Come to think of it, Xeni Jardin's build-ups to her articles for Wired aren't particularly thrilling either; phonecam chronicles may provide immediacy, but they're rarely compelling.

Nota bene: It appears that Wiley Wiggins removed his comment about why filtering BoingBoing is a good idea. I don't know exactly why, but it's a bit disappointing.

Hot damn. Martin Popoff finally published his book about Blue Oyster Cult's albums and everything surrounding them, and Darkthrone's new album has reached American shores at long last, so once I get paid next week (or, more likely, later this morning, after a few beers and the ache of impatience), I'll be getting my veiny hands on both.

For those of you that are voting this year- I'm not, and not exclusively because I find the entire system to be a sham, but because I moved at the wrong time and couldn't register even if I'd really wanted to- be prepared to be fucked. I'm not talking about the outcome, although that's likely; I'm talking about electronic voting. If you find yourself in front of a touch screen instead of pulling a mechanical level or holding a paper ballot, the possibility of casting your vote for someone other than your chosen shitheel is quite real. Cue the fiasco.

If I had registed to vote, I probably would have voted for Nobody. He won in 2000, so why not give Nobody a second term?

Went to bed at 7 AM, woke up at 2:30 PM, checked my email, and decided to spent my last hour and a half before work in bed reading. I am in a leisurely, warm-bed mood, and figured that I'd loaf in a different way for a change. My new idling technique is unstoppable.

Probably due to my own lack of understanding, I'm still trying to find some kind of middle ground between Kierkegaard's aesthetic and ethical stages. I don't know if there is one. I'm definitely stuck, so to speak, in the aesthetic stage, with the occasional brief foray into the ethical.

A good amount of new black metal has been pouring forth from my speakers since I moved back to West Alabama. Drudkh is the most noteworthy outfit, and proof that the loveliest of maggots can erupt from the cold corpse of the Soviet Union.

Holy shit. I was driving my friend back to the Heights about twenty minutes ago when I noticed an unusual light emenating from left. I look over, and the dome light of my car is on. It hasn't worked since I got the Blue Bastard in February. I have no idea why it started working, but it did, and wouldn't turn off, so I ended up pulling the bulb out to kill the light.

Less than a minute later, I heard music. After briefly thinking that it was coming from a church (despite there being no churches nearby) or an adjacent car, I look down and see that my FUCKING CD PLAYER IS WORKING. Like the dome light, it's never worked since I purchased the car, so I was utterly shocked. I hope it works tomorrow, and every day thereafter. Music will make driving exponentially more pleasant.

I assume there's been some sort of short in the electrical system of the Blue Bastard, but why did those two things start working now of all times? The weather? The dampness? The presence of a certain redhead? I'll probably never know, and with my luck the CD player will never function again, but I'll rejoice in tonight's little marvel while I can.

Well, shit.

After yesterday, I have no choice but to publicly admit that I like Avril Lavigne. I have for a while, though to be accurate I don't like everything I've heard from her, and, to make the sexist angle clear, I doubt I'd give half a fuck about her if she wasn't so damned good-looking. Really, man, I'm not the pop-star-lovin' type, but fuck it. I'll swallow my pride and say that I very much enjoy "Sk8r Boi" and "Happy Ending."

There goes any credibility I might've had, but at least I don't like Britney Spears, unlike a certain sibling of mine.

On a related, and unrelated note: what. the. fuck?

Ah, Saturday. I finally feel like I've got a real weekend at hand, since I have no obligations hanging over my head. So what am I going to do with my weekend? Very little. Read, drink, maybe write, and compose a couple breezy sonatas.

Andy's sister Janessa is going to Antarctica for three and a half months. I won't bother displaying my envy, but instead be thankful that she gave me a spiffy patch from the US Antarctic Program, and will probably send more once she's on the ice.

End transmission.

Certain parts of "The Honour of Silence" by Death in June nicely sum up the week thus far.

Merely knowing I have to go to work on any given weekday, Fridays excepted, is completely enervating.

At least I've gotten back in touch with one of my favorite people of all time, Amanda Beasley. Turns out her dog is gay and she's going to Iceland for a week later this month. I'm only envious of the latter.

Well, I'm all moved into the place on West Alabama. I have bookshelves and broadband and beer, and I recently heard from one of my best friends for the first time in ages, so life is good.

I watched three movies in a row last night, which is something I never do, but it was top notch. At 5:30 in the morning, I walked over to Donut Wheel, drunk as hell, and bought kolaches for everyone, everyone being myself, my brother, and kt.

Yep, life's good.

Friday afternoon, and the only sign of Ivan is a pleasant breeze. It appears that my fears were unfounded, but I'm assuming that we'll at least get some nasty rain, most likely while I'm moving my shit tomorrow. Man, I'm gonna miss this house, and I'm definitely gonna miss the Heights. One day, should I ever have the money, I think I'd like to settle down here, though that's contigent on not finding a more appealing locale in the meantime.

For now, it's a last few Lone Stars, some more Thin Lizzy, and conversation online with friends and loved ones. I'll pack the last of my shit later.

It took a few years, but purchasing Thin Lizzy's Jailbreak LP for a quarter back at SHSU has struck me as one of the best things I've ever done for myself, and, simultaneously, one of the worst. Last weekend I bought Dedication, a Thin Lizzy best-of, and while I've enjoyed it immensely- it's nice hearing what else they have to offer other than Jailbreak, which is a damnedly good record- I can't help but really feel remorseful that Phil Lynott is dead. I don't know that I've ever felt so sad that a musician or other artist has passed on, which is odd, given that I'm no long-term Thin Lizzy fan. Maybe when Bruce Dickinson, or Rob Halford, or Lemmy, or Matt Pike, or Tony Iommi, or other people I've dug for a while, become worm food, I'll feel the way I do now. I suppose it's a testament to how good a songwriter and bassist Mr. Lynott was that I truly wish he was still alive to put out albums. I can see why Brant Bjork dedicated Local Angel to him. Said album is very much a Thin Lizzy kinda record, which I never recognized until Randy and I were enjoying instant classics such as "I'm A Rocker" and "Chinatown," among others.

I think I need to try to talk my brother into learning how to play "Jailbreak." What a fucking RIFF! Why don't you fuckin' heathens enjoy this shit as much as I do?

Word is that a tropical storm is supposed to hit Houston sometime tomorrow afternoon or evening, most likely while I'm at work. I can't help but recall the hellacious flood of 2001, of which I had the dishonor of being subjected to, and which I desperately hope is not reprised in the next couple of days. I cannot afford to have my car fucked by the vagaries of weather, nor do I wish to be stuck at work, worrying whether or not my house is receiving an aquatic reaming, especially since my ferrets will be here. I'm going to get hold of Sara first thing tomorrow and see if she can keep an eye on the place, since her new apartment is on the third floor and is therefore pretty much floodproof. With any luck, the rain will come at a steady pace, knocking on the door of H-Town instead of trying to kick it in, and my possessions and well-being will remain intact. Either way, it's supposed to rain all weekend, which should be fucking great, since I'll be moving. Nothing like lugging furniture and waterlogged cardboard boxes around town.

Ah, well. There's nowt to be done about it, so I'll just sit here, smoke a du Maurier, and sip on this glass of incredibly good Rhum Barbancourt from Haiti. C'est la vie.

Behold September's RPG.net column. May I suggest sampling some dilled brussel sprouts while you peruse it?

I really shouldn't listen to Katatonia and think about how much I wish the girl I'm seeing was around. Hell, Katatonia are just a flat-out downer anytime you listen to them, albeit magnificently so, but damn, their brand of morbid, offbeat romanticism just isn't what I need at the moment. It just makes me miss Natalie more.

I think it's time for more Thin Lizzy, though it's hard to break away from this aurally-induced melancholy.

My day has consisted of sleep, beer, hanging out with Randy, buying books and albums, more beer, visiting lame "hip" bars, fuckin' off on MySpace, and listening to shitloads of Thin Lizzy. Life ain't too bad.

Download this song. Listen to this song. Repeatedly. I dare say this song has been the most meaningful piece of music I've consistently listened to for the past two or three months. Here are the most accurate lyrics the Internet could provide, with editing and additions on my part.

"Lone Wolf Winter"
Destroyer 666


Lone wolf winter...
Alone again
Lookin' sideways
Paranoid again

Gotta get out
Out of here
Cannot breathe
With the stench of fear!

Black days and blacker nights
Gets the gift of second sight
Don't believe that I belong
Don't feel right but I don't feel wrong

I think I'm a wolf
Then again I'm fuckin' crazy
I think what I need is a bitch
Don't you?
Lone wolf winter

Lone wolf winter

How is it that I have become the hunter
And the hunted
And thought has become my enemy?

Memory falls away behind me
Leaving me in despair
I run but I cannot hide
The terror is inside
I awake but the nightmare is still here

-----

How I loathe mankind sometimes.

-Dave
"I am still here"

Tonight I'm going to finish my RPG.net column, really. I'm not reveling in luxurious sloth at the moment, so might as well go for it. As a matter of fact, I even jotted down some notes for a potential new novel at work tonight, some of which involved ideas I had last night while propelling myself to bed, which wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, thanks to a couple of hasty beers.

Fuckin' A, the new Mastodon album is bad-ass. I'd love to be in a boat with Queequeg or Dagoo chasing a whale while listening to "Iron Tusk" and dodging the line as it whips from the tub. Yeah, fuckers, go read Moby-Dick and you'll know what I'm talking about.

Man, I'm lazy.

I'm so lazy I don't want to do nothing. Don't let yourself think that the double negative cancels itself out, because what I mean is that I am so lazy that doing nothing sounds like too much effort, so I want to do less than nothing.

My RPG.net column is horribly overdue, and while I've got maybe half of it finished, I'm too lazy to write the rest tonight. I don't even want to bother plugging in my headphones to listen to the new Ghost album, which is fantastic. Shit, I'm so fucking lazy I don't want to drag my ass to bed, because falling asleep will take some work.

This level of laziness is awe-inspiring.

Another blur of a weekend, but I can't say it's been a bad blur, even though I failed to write my column for RPG.net in a timely fashion. With any luck I'll have it emailed off tomorrow. Sorry, Aeon.

And now, the requisite shallow metal album reviews.

Mastodon, Leviathan
Let's see... technical, rifftastic, modern metal with a Moby-Dick theme. I FAIL TO FIND ANY FUCKING PROBLEMS WITH THAT.

Amon Amarth, Fate of Norns
Despite sounding exactly like Amon Amarth should, there's a slight variance from their old albums here, albeit a good one. It'll take a few more listens to put my finger on it, but if you dig Amon Amarth, you can't go wrong. Even if you don't like them, this is worth your time if you want solid Swedish metal.

Thursday morning, 3:05 AM, payday, booze, etc etc. (Thanks for that one, DFW.)

I'm desperately trying to find a medium-sized Dopesmoker t-shirt. Sleep, despite being defunct, need to be promulgated.

Fuck. I think I'm going to lose it, and I have the Murder City Devils to thank for it. "18 Wheels" is not a song I can afford to hear right now, but I'll be damned if I'm not playing it again.

The follow-up to the emotional ditch the MCD threw me into is an old Gas Giant song, and it's doing a fine job of putting my head in a better place, albeit temporarily.

I need a permanent vacation.

Why does practically every action feel like one taken in the service of entropy?

I ran across this on Blabbermouth.net, a metal news site.

Amy Norton of Reuters Health reports: Blasting music can be hard on the ears and the neighbors, and now researchers say it can also pack enough punch to collapse a lung.

Reporting in the medical journal Thorax, they describe the cases of four young men who suffered a lung collapse — technically called pneumothorax — that appeared to be triggered by loud music. Three of the men were at a concert or club when the pneumothorax occurred, while the fourth was in his car, which was outfitted with a 1,000-watt bass box because he "liked to listen to loud music."

A pneumothorax occurs when a small rupture in one of the lungs allows air to leak into the space between the lungs and the chest wall, causing the lung to collapse. Symptoms include breathlessness and chest pain on the affected side.

A small, partial collapse may resolve on its own, but more severe cases may require the insertion of a chest tube to allow the air to escape the chest cavity.

Often, an underlying lung disease or chest injury is the culprit in pneumothorax. But so-called primary spontaneous pneumothorax happens in the absence of an underlying disease, typically striking tall, thin, male smokers.

Given that I like loud music, am a tall, thin, male smoker, and suffered a pneumothorax last year (courtesy of a car accident) that required the aforementioned chest tube, I am incredibly creeped out to read this, and have all the more reason to quit smoking, which I will do long before I stop listening to loud music.

I don't know that I've ever been as rapidly overwhelmed by a piece of writing as I was when I read David Foster Wallace's "Incarnations of Burned Children" on my lunch (or maybe it was a smoke) break at work today. A mere three pages or so, the story hit me in a way that I would imagine a shotgun fired by God would. I simply cannot describe it. I re-read the final few lines at least four times, and went back to work in a daze, which I haven't fully recovered from.

If you're interested in reading it, "Incarnations of Burned Children" can be found in DFW's newest book, Oblivion. I recently checked it out from the library, and halfway through reading the first story, "Mr. Squishy," which dredged up all the horror roiling in the quiet corners of everyone's daily existence, I went out and bought a book of the man's essays, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. My God, I've never read contemporary fiction like this. Simply put, it is everything that literary fiction should be- no, fuck that, it's everything all fiction should aspire to, on some level. I cannot wait to read the reast of Wallace's work.

I'm also concurrently reading Omoo by Herman Melville, which is most excellent, and incidentally the source of one of my ferrets' names.

If there was a printed-word equivalent of crack, I would be on it right now.