nichts

If I ever had the chance to be someone other than who I am, and decided to actually take that chance, I would be one of the following:

No.

I would love to visit the past and do things that the Dave Smith of today would never have the opportunity to do, but I don't think I would ever really want to be anyone other than David Addison Smith, whatever that has ever, does, and will ever, entail. There never has been, and never will be, another me to cough and stroll his way across the days, weeks, years, plagued by doubt and happiness. This is right. It's just me and my dreams, the latter as nebulous as the former, and both as thin and ephemeral as the world which anchors them, though no less powerful for all that.

Time, marching in leaden boots, sometimes in straight lines, sometimes in lazy spirals; sometimes hand in hand with Self, sometimes utterly disassociated. I can feel it all unraveling and knitting back together, drawing in new strands and threads, dropping old ones only to pick them up again and add them to the skein at hand.

Nothing makes sense, and it never has to. Just play the hands across the loom, hear the click of the shuttle, and realize that you weave nothing, march nowhere. The universe started in that void that is the moment before you started walking, before you sat down to weave. Before God put on his boots and took a seat at the loom. Walk. Weave. Return to nothing. Nothing is you, me, everything: terrifying indeed. We all wanted to march somewhere, weave a tapestry of meaning, and some of us- the fools, the geniuses, the madmen- did, or are, or will. But the threads, rich and vibrant, and the road, dusty and choking and stretching on between rows of stately trees, are not really there. The trick is not caring. Weave on. Walk on. Ex nihilo, ad nihilo. Nothing is the shining substance(lessness) that was, is, will be. Ignore the tight, tiny gaps between threads, and pay no mind to the spaces between footfalls, even though they are where you are.

Nothing makes sense, and it never has to.

Righteous.

Time definitely moves differently when you spend it with a solid dame. For the first time in a long while, this weekend didn't seem too short.

And then he began writing.

Trite, but seemingly true: happiness doesn't breed much in the way of writing, and not only because you find yourself spending more time with the source of that happiness than at the computer.

Maybe it's only an initial thing, and will wear off once regular behavior patterns are formed. Maybe those patterns are already emerging; this is the first night in a while that I haven't spent with Linda, or anyone else for that matter, and the quiet unease I'd grown accustomed to and made the most of is seeping back in, and back out into the pages of Unheimlich. It's very reassuring, knowing that I haven't traded one form of happiness for another, but I'm curious as to when a real point of equilibrium will be reached, and if it's necessary in the first place.

I could really use a drink right now, but when was the last time I said that and didn't mean it?

A glass of Scotch is called for

It's one of those nights where you stop what you're doing, think about things for a little while, then resume your previous activity, having failed to reach any conclusions.

"Rita strikes out." -MSS

Well, that was a joke. Houston flipped its lid over Rita, and the only thing that happened was a 72-hour traffic jam, a few downed tree limbs and power outages, and a lot of bad news reporting. Even tropical storm Allison was more imposing and damaging. I feel really badly for everyone north and east of here that got fucked over; it really seemed like this big one was meant for us.

Anyway, riding out the anticlimatic storm was amusing enough, and nothing happened to my apartment. Didn't even lose power, though my brother unfortunately did. Poison Girl stayed open, so we had a drink there after cruising around the damp ghost towns that were Montrose and downtown. Dave shot some footage of the ride, which I hope to watch soon.

So, there you have it. A dull report of an equally dull non-event. Or, more accurately, a dull non-event from where I was standing. I'm sure everyone who actually suffered from it would say otherwise, but hey, I'm not speaking for them, am I?

All right, I'm tired. Adios.

Fuck you, cunt!

So some windy bitch named Rita might be heading towards H-Town, bent on ruining the lives of all the fine folks who live here. I'm especially targeted because I live in Montrose, which loves to flood whenever there's more than a few hours' hard rain. I'm not as bad off as all the folks living east and south of here, but shit, I've already had one apartment flooded, and the one I'm in now has carpet and will require a lot more work to get back up to snuff if the shit hits the fan.

Thankfully, Dave and I have already decided to split town in the wee hours if things get really bad, and several people have offered us places to stay until it's safe to return home. I've also had the opportunity to hang out with my new girlfriend, the (to quote Peter Ackroyd's version of John Milton) highly delightful Linda, quite often, so if by some freak occurence these are my final days, they've been good ones. Diolch yn fawr, Duw.

But they won't be my last days. Fuck no. Dave Smith is mightier than... no, I can't say it. Won't say it. Conan might get away with "CROM LAUGHS AT YOUR FOUR WINDS!", but I'm with Subotai on this one, and the four winds are far mightier than that fickle tunnel-dwelling bastard Crom.

On the other hand, should this be the end of me, rest assured that I will go to my death with beer, book, tobacco, and rifle at hand.

"Fix bayonets!"
"Stand by to repel boarders!"

Four days off from the drudgery mill

I spent the last four days actually doing things, which was quite a change from my usual routine of sluggishness and loafing.

Friday: Hung out with Scott, Andy, and Dave at Niko Niko's, bought a bunch of wine to take to my mom, and closed out the evening with Linda.

Saturday: Went to my uncle's place, where I saw him and my folks. My mom had arranged a gathering in celebration of my uncle turning 70, so there were about a dozen and a half good East Texas folks there, all sitting around under the trees drinking beer and telling stories. Good times were had by all, and the hummingbirds were out in force, which was quite entertaining.

Sunday: Stayed at my uncle's later than usual, because my mom and Tracey and I opened a couple bottles of wine and everyone ended up sitting at the dining table shootin' the shit and taking photographs. I also borrowed my uncle's copy of John Thomason's Fix Bayonets! and Other Stories, which will undoubtedly provide hours of good reading. Got home, and despite my exhaustion, spent the evening with Linda drinking beer at the Harp and coffee at my house.

Monday: I'd already taken the day off to see High on Fire, and Linda had invited me to play D&D with her friends, so it looked like my day was good to go. Unfortunately, the D&D game was canceled, so Linda and I just loafed around at her place, playing with her holy terror of a new kitten. Early in the afternoon, Matt Pike called me told me he'd put me on the guest list for the show- score! Scott, Tracey, Linda, and I assembled at the Engine Room around nine, watched HoF, and then pounded back shots and jawed with Matt Pike. It was still early, so Linda and I went to Poison Girl, had another beer, and came back here to let some of the booze wear off before she went home.

It's time to drag my carcass to work, so any further anecdotes will come later. Suffice to say it's been a hell of a weekend.

No favors/salute to fiction

I'm not doing myself any favors by posting almost every night/morning/whatever you diurnal people call it. Folks have gotta be missin' out on my quality bullshit, flooded as they are with it.

Anyway, I'm writing to say thanks to Willow Rosenberg and Tara Maclay.

How many other writers out there have spent all night writing a mere page or two, only to walk to the grocery store at dawn to buy beer and soymilk and come back to write some more?

Plenty, I'd guess.

Three kinds of people:

1) Those I don't know. Assuming they're not some kind of public figure whose actions and words are broadcast far and wide with the express purpose of provoking a response from those who take in said words and actions, I like people I don't know, or more precisely, I like the potential imbued in people I don't know. Saying howdy to people I pass on the street is meaningful, in some small way; so is a couple minutes' worth of shooting the breeze with the guy next to you in the bar, or exchanging a smile with the mail carrier, und so weiter. It doesn't matter if anything becomes of it; as a matter of fact, in many cases I almost prefer momentary, ephemeral interaction, because prolonged exposure to others can create

2) People I know and dislike, distrust, am repelled by, am disgusted by, and/or any other number of negative things. Sadly, this category of people makes up a disproportionate number of of the human beings I deal with regularly, mainly due to the fact that I have a job and am exposed to various media. "Familiarity breeds contempt." Luckily, there are

3) People I know and like. These are the ones that really matter the most, although they all necessarily sprang from the first category. There's not much to say about this class of people, other than that I'm thankful to know them, and wish there were more of them. Alas, some grotesque, seemingly convoluted but probably really quite simple laws of human society dictate that shitheads outnumber good folks by at least 10,000,000 to 1.

It's no surprise that I'm not a very social man, then. Conversely, it makes perfect sense that I value my friends, family, and loved ones as much as I do; they're proof that the odds aren't totally against me. Between category three folks and category one strangers (who are exempt from the numbers game because I don't know them and therefore am compelled to qualify them as an unknown quantity; it's when I get to know someone that they fall into the second or, far less often, third categories), I'm not doing too badly.

I'm very good at boring myself, if you can't tell. Fine- better to bore myself than have someone else do it.

Go ahead and yawn, but...

here's another brief, hip-hop related post:

Ice Cube's "When Will They Shoot?" is one of the best songs I've heard this year. Too bad I'm about thirteen years late, and that I'm one of the white devils Cube rails against.

Fuck it.

Why have Ice Cube, the Geto Boys, NWA, and, as of tonight, good ol' 3rd Bass and Digital Underground been my writing music of choice lately? None of them have shit to do with Unheimlich, but hey, results are results, right?

If it's about food, is it really trivial?

For months now, I've bought Vavel sauerkraut from Poland. It's more expensive than American brands, but it's also very crisp and keeps well.

Yesterday I went to Fiesta to do some grocery shopping and grabbed my standard jar of Vavel sauerkraut. I noticed that there were orange bits in it, but the label said that the only ingredients were, as usual, cabbage and salt. Really? Is there no word in Polish for "carrots"? 'Cause you could've fooled me- those orange bits sure looked and tasted like carrots. The 'kraut was less crisp, and sweeter, than usual, but don't get me wrong; I'm still buying this particular brand. I'm simply curious about the change in recipe that's so clearly there.

Oh, and by the way, English bar managers with mad literary knowledge, good looks, and senses of humor really know how to make a dude's day.

Of Beer and Beards, Or, Another Quotidian Missive

Our man received today his bi-weekly infusion of funds, given to him in exchange for his labor and a tiny but noticeable fraction of his psychic well-being, and, being the affiliate of drink that he is, promptly purchased himself twelve cans of Texan swill and twenty papered twists of fine Virginia tobacco. Several of these beers disappeared down our man's gullet in little time, for he is a thirsty youth, and one whose brain is most delighted by the play thereupon of alcohol and tobacco, surely two of the Lord's finest gifts to his sinful creation.

The youth, as some of his closest conspirators may know, has been contemplating growing his whiskers, in the hopes of achieving a beard to rival that of a grizzled Kentuckian or melancholic New England author from the days of yore. However, such facial hirsuteness strikes our man as unbecoming a man of as few years as he, despite his knowing that in the past a full beard was the true mark of a viable, virile male. Or, perhaps, his reluctance to pursue whisker-growth is a sign of his recognition that, age and experience aside, he does not feel aged enough to wear a beard decisively, and that postponing the complete abjuration of razor and strop is a wise decision for the time being. Ah, but how he longs for the day when he need not raise a hand to his jaw to stroke his whiskers in contemplation, but only need fold his hands over his breastbone and achieve that same outward sign of inward cogitation! "Time, good man, time," he says to himself.

Time! Our man is ever aware of that recursive beast, the shimmering lemniscate that most believe linear, but that the gnosis-minded among us know is a far more complex creature, Ourouboros-like in its maddening self-swallowing. It is this awareness that brings our man back to the icebox, where cold brews await him, and to the desk, where he seeks to pen words that will express a sliver of the many things that roil in his flaxen skull. He wishes all a good evening, and recommends that you investigate the newest additions to his work in progress, the Teutonically-titled Unheimlich, which is nigh twenty pages longer than the last time it was made public. Good night, mankind!

Recognition at the moment of impact

"Subdivisions" by Rush is one of those songs I really, really like but never think about until I'm going through my records and run across the LP it belongs to (Signals, if you didn't know). As I put it on the turntable and dropped the needle, the appropriateness of what I was doing struck me. I'm working on a part of Unheimlich that takes place in the suburbs, and while the attitude isn't quite in line with the song's, it's nevertheless fitting.

Ah, moments.

"Damn it feels good to..."

...space out with cheap wine, Luckies, and an ever-increasing collection of Geto Boys tunes. Especially when you're gettin' some writing done.

The day may come when this shit catches up with me, and I probably won't be ready for it, but all I can say is that I doubt I'll regret it too much. Or that I hope I won't regret it too much.

Hot damn, time to quit thinkin' and make with the fiction.

And some more vino.

So long, Melrose Place.

My brother and I, with help from Tracey and Lisa, cleared out and cleaned up 1920 W. Alabama today. I spent five hours carrying trash downstairs, scrubbing futilely at the stained carpet, and watching two vacuum cleaners die unpleasant, horrible-smelling deaths. There was also beer.

Now I'm exhausted, so it's time to go stretch out, watch Buffy, and say hello to the ferrets. More later, perhaps.

Hit the bricks.

Some non-smokers are shocked when they ask how much a pack of cigarettes costs and I tell them "around four bucks."

"Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?" Yeah, it is expensive, which is why, with the exception of the past week, I've been rolling my own, which runs me about eight bucks a week, if that. (By the way, my cigarette consumption has remained at roughly ten a day, give or take, since I decided to cut back.) I can afford it because it's one of the few luxuries I allow myself, along with a couple-three albums or books a month and a few sixers of beer.

Now that gas is three bucks a gallon and climbing, I can ask people who drive "Isn't that expensive? How can you afford that?", but the odds of them admitting that driving, like smoking, is a luxury, are slim to none.

It's all right for folks to tell me to quit smoking, but God forbid I tell them to quit driving.

Oh, God, poor New Orleans.

No, I didn't pay that much attention to the tsunami which Hurricane Katrina has been (wrongly) compared to. No, I didn't donate any money or time to help the hundreds of thousands of people fucked over by that particular natural disaster. Shit, I've barely done anything to help the, well, hundreds of thousands of people ruined by Katrina, aside from donate a little money I don't have to the Red Cross.

But.

I am a little ashamed that my humanitarian impulses are not only few, but selective. In this case, I've opted to donate to people I can relate to, even in the most distant sense: fellow Southerners. You know what, though? Fuck it. I dare anyone to tell me, and mean it, that they'd be more willing to help out someone on the other side of the world than someone they have some kind of affinity with.

This has nothing to do with nation or race or politics. It has to do with neighbors, in the broadest sense of the term. I've failed to help out all kinds of people the world over, even here in my own damned city of Houston, but shit, H-Town never got swallowed by water, did it? My point is that this tragedy, in my mind, outweighs anything my "neighbors" have faced in a long time, and for fuck's sake, this time I couldn't sit idly by and do nothing.

As always, I've failed to put my point across properly, but I'm not the focus here. Please, folks, do what you can.

Self vs. Self

At some point between one o'clock and three o'clock this afternoon, I decided to make an effort to curb my addiction to both tobacco and alcohol. The former is much stronger and undeniably physical; I smoke about a pack of cigarettes a day. The latter is almost entirely psychological (as is the smoking, but I can go without booze and not feel physically thrown off); I drink about three or four beers a day. Come my days off, both cigarettes and alcohol are consumed in greater quantity.

I've never planned to quit drinking. Ever. Cut back, yes, and I do so periodically just to ensure that I'm not really a dipsomaniac. Smoking, on the other hand, is one of those things I've told myself I will eventually stop doing completely, though I also tell myself that if I could curb my nicotine intake to about five gaspers a day, I would never actually quit. Needless to say, I've failed to both quit and cut back, until today.

"Today," of course, means nothing. I've smoked seven cigarettes, and will smoke no more until tomorrow, because I purposely left my Luckies at work and am too lazy to go buy more if a nic fit strikes. I've had one tallboy and half a glass of wine, but there are three unopened bottles in the kitchen, so if I want another drink I can have one. I don't want one, though, because I'm trying to make today become tomorrow, in the sense that I've had my daily limit and must wait. It's an exercise in willpower.

And man, do I fuckin' hate exercises in willpower. Not because of any difficulty, per se, but because contemplating my own ambiguity re: my habits irks the shit out of me. I wish I could just say "fuck it, I'm gonna keep smoking, consequences be damned," or "nope, this is it, as of right now," but I can't. Or won't. I can't tell. You can surely see the quandary I'm in. It's not so much about alcohol or tobacco vs. willpower as determination one way or another.

Say I do quit smoking. Then what? Yeah, I get healthier, but I'm missing out on something I genuinely love. (I don't mind being an addict at all, but like all addicts, I can only say that until my fix is no longer available, and the withdrawals kick in.) It's this kind of thing that gets me, and not being able to choose one way or another just makes it even more frustrating.

Fuck it. I don't want to think about this right now. Viva the intellectual cop-out!

So much to say, but so little energy.

I am very, very tired. I can't fuckin' believe the weekend is over already. I do have a couple remarks before I call it a night, however.

-Michael Haaga, formerly of metal band dead horse (yes, no capitals), has had a new band for a while now. I finally saw them tonight, and, well, as Matt put it, they sound like "the soundtrack to a bad indie film." I just wasn't impressed, even by their dead horse cover. The Riverboat Gamblers, on the other hand, put on one hell of a show, and I saw Christian and Danielle, which made my night, so to speak- being with Matt and Holly really did the trick.

-I can't stop listening to Sentenced during the wee hours, which is pathetic because I only own one of their albums and have only a handful of mp3s.

-I'm working on a new short (and I mean short) fiction piece based on the Finnish suicide pact vignette I posted a few days ago. Once it's done, it'll be posted here, complete with dedication. It's an exercise in sap of the most morbid variety, but God, I love working on it. I've never gotten over the sense of tragic love that was instilled in me (by whom? probably art) years ago.

-Next weekend will be the last one available for non-familial good times for a while, so if you want to hang out, let me know. Forewarning: I will have no money, so either suggest something that requires no cash or be prepared to pony up for beer.

Mixed messages

FOOLISH/HUMOROUS

Last night, after eating at Ming's with Van Cleve, Nicole, and Andy, the three of us went to Helios. I saw Cheyenne for the first time in a while, and also saw Claudia and her boyfriend's band. Folks started getting restless after an hour or so, however, so Eric split and, upon noting how early it was, Andy, Nicole, and I motivated ourselves over to the Proletariat.

Little did we know that trouble was brewing, and not just in the form of a Galaga machine. (I played several games, of course, and did horribly, due to lack of practice and inebriation.) No, the real trouble was that it was karaoke night, and that Andy and I talked ourselves into signing up. He was going to sing "Heartbreak Hotel"; I, "Seasons in the Abyss." As we waited for our turn, I was assaulted by the horrible singing of hipsters doing trendy or kitschy non-hipster songs and a growing sense of dread. What the hell was I thinking? What would I do when I took the stage, aside from talk a lot of shit and wish that I had a death-metal growl?

Thankfully, last call was announced before Andy and I had our chance to make fools of ourselves, and after getting some grub at House of Guys, I came home, watched three episodes of Buffy, and drank some ku ding tea, my dignity still intact.


KILLER

My brother's currently in Norway, and here's an excerpt from an email he just sent me:

Yo dude -

I ran across Matt Pike at Hole in the Sky and mentioned that Lovecraft book,
whereupon he preceded to talk about how kick ass your book was.

This news made my day, since I gave Matt Pike a copy of Axis Mundi Sum the last time I saw High On Fire play, and I wasn't sure if he'd read it or not. Fuckin' A.


Now for the

MISERABLE ADDENDUM

Voivod guitarist Denis D'Amour, AKA Piggy, died Friday night of inoperable colon cancer, which had spread to his liver.

Voivod was one of those bands that nobody I knew growing up listened to, but somehow I heard about them here and there anyway. A few years back, I picked up their Angel Rat record on tape, and never really listened to it. Then, in 2003, they released a new album with the original vocalist, snake, and new bassist Jason Newsted, and I had the chance to go see them play at Numbers. Ever since that spring, I've been a fan of Voivod, and I can say that all the acclaim they earned over the years was well-deserved. It's a shame that Piggy's gone, but at least he left one hell of a legacy.

shitty poem from the bottom of a lazy heart

supermarket
thin anxious crowds
basket full of wine:
3/$9.00.
plus beer, more wine

needle
wax
volume knob
"yeah"

daydream of barstools
Li Po
shining She
smoke and conversation

feet up
toes free
dissolving,
cares:
evanescent

Predawn stasis

It's four AM, and my weekend has begun. Alas, I am currently crippled by an overwhelming desire to do nothing. No, that's not accurate. I want to do something, but I don't know what. About the only thing I can think of that sounds appealing is going over to my brother's place and playing GTA, but since there's a bug in the game, I know I won't be able to complete the only plot-crucial mission available to me right now, so that option ain't so hot. I don't feel like writing. I do feel like drinking, but there's no booze in the house. Read? Maybe. A walk sounds good, at least in theory.

Shit, I guess I'll just smoke some more cigarettes and maybe listen to X. If tonight's like the rest of the nights this week, it'll be dawn before I know it, and then I can occupy myself by walking down to Fiesta and buying beer.

Wait, never mind. The Longest Journey. That should do the trick.

Sacred Acquisitions

Today I bought:

-a hair brush (the first one I've actually purchased since I started growing my hair long two years ago)
-some pens
-a sixer of Lone Star longnecks
-the LP of Om's Variations On A Theme, simply because I, and everyone else, deserves to hear it played loudly on wax
-a Sleep t-shirt, which might not sport the Dopesmoker/Jerusalem art or keywords, but is still a fucking Sleep t-shirt
-and Electric Wizard's newest offering, We Live, which I haven't found for sale in a record store since it came out last year.

Money well spent? Fuck yes.
Will I regret it a few days before my next paycheck? Possibly.
Do I care? Not at all.

"Let's give our lives for this love..."

More pseudo-fiction, heavy on the fiction. Juvenile, possibly, but potent in ways I can't explain. Listen to Sentenced, and see this as an extrapolation thereof. Do not think that suicide is in my future; if it was, it would come unbidden, but it won't.

---

If I ever found Her, I'd propose on the shores of a Finnish lake, blood pumping from the open veins of our arms so that when she said (it doesn't matter), our final minutes would be unspeakably significant.

A day or so thereafter, some poor Finn would find two pale bodies on the crimson-stained shore: whether they were clutched in a final embrace, or separated by some unknown (mutual?) hate, the motive would remain a mystery.

Suffice to say that there would be no doubt about the love we shared, emotionally, psychologically, cellularly.

---

At least all this upbeat (yes, really) Finnish gloom has given me some material for Unheimlich.

No better than your average blabbermouth.net poster, but...

FUCK YOU, SHARON OSBOURNE. And fuck you, Ozzy, for letting that cunt rule your life.

And fuck everyone else that apparently tried to disrupt Iron Maiden's set at the San Berdoo Ozzfest. Fuck each and every one of you miserable cunts, and cheers to Maiden to soldiering on.

(Go to bwbk.com or blabbermouth.net and scroll back through a few days' worth of news to see what I'm talking about.)

I'm so very glad that I've got Birgit Zacher's background vocals for Sentenced to keep me company now, since there's nobody and nothing else in the world that could do what they do right now.

This is when I need to be at 19713 Westbridge Lane, going through my brother's CD collection, watching the X-Files, surfing the web, drinking coffee, listening to the AC hum, smoking Luckies in the driveway, basking in a different brand of despair.

"I haven't seen a roll job that good since..."

Random pseudo-coworkers (pseudo because they work for the same company, but not in my department or on my shift) have, on at least three occasions, made drug references to me as I stood out back having a cigarette. Since I've been rolling my own for the last couple months- the best skill I ever learned- it's not uncommon for someone to leave the building and find me in the middle of rolling a cigarette. Back in college, doing this also earned the inevitable "hey, man, is that a joint?" comment, and I've gotten a couple of those lately as well. However, having middle-aged folks start discussing their dope-addled pasts out of the blue is a different story altogether.

I don't mind, of course. Such conversations may be slightly banal and nostalgia-tinged, but they're superior to discussions of actual work, or weather, or any of the other things that come up when two relative strangers feel the need to acknowledge each others' existence.

It's time to write, but before I go, dig this, courtesy of Warren Ellis' site: Unusual Otter Attack Kills Dog. Proof that ferrets and their kin are the earth's finest mammals. ALL HAIL THE ANIMAL TRIUMVIRATE THAT SHALL RULE THE EARTH WHEN MAN RENDERS HIMSELF EXTINCT!

19713

A meandering meditation on memory and place. Incomplete, sloppy, crucial.

---

Hot brick— no, wait, wrong house. A few square feet of indoor/outdoor carpeting, then the concrete walkway that leads to the driveway, also concrete. This is the old place, the one returned to. The concrete’s still hot, no matter where this is. Hot, but not searing, thankfully ribbed here and there with the shadows of pines. The walk to the mailbox isn’t too unpleasant. Nothing there but circulars and a polybagged assortment of coupons.

Back in the house, advertising dumped in the trash can that’s only ever seen lint and dryer sheets and unwanted mail. Don’t even have to turn on the light in the tiny laundry room to know where to chuck the mail. Close the door behind— room’s almost as hot as the garage it opens onto— down the short hall. Three doors, four if you count the one at the end of the hall, but that feels odd since it’s not to one side or another. So four doors— no, five, laundry— four framed paintings and pieces of needlework. Watercolors, harborscapes, a century and a lifetime old. The needlepoints are only as old as the memories of them and all the walls they’ve hung on. Above the wall hangings, a grate breathes cold air.

The door nearest the laundry room is always closed. The next one on that side of the hall, currently the left, tends toward ajar, an almost-reflection of the door directly across from it: open, allowing the sight of porcelain and glass. The bathroom, where another needlepoint hangs, soaking up steam with invisible decay-inducing frequency.

Why back here?

About-face, across the dust-textured linoleum foyer. Brush against the antique sewing machine, which appeared— when? It wasn’t in all the other old places. The living room opens up, ceiling way up there giving comfortable space. Carpet’s clean enough to see the vacuum tracks, but there’s a handful of VHS tapes scattered on the floor by the TV. Not, thankfully, in the slotted light coming in from the right. Only a rattan, bamboo, wicker, no, it’s bamboo, or cane, chair gets to bask in the sun. Dust motes float in and out of the light, presumably. The recliner earns attention now: an upholstered throne, relaxing just to look at. Flanked by books, two, on the floor, and a properly coastered, sweating can of soda on an end table, the recliner emits a siren song, beckoning with the sweet voice of comfort.

No, move on, but grab the soda on the way to the kitchen, through the informal dining room. The linoleum’s cleaner, one stretch of countertop bouldered with crumbs. The breadbox, closed, admits no guilt, but the box of Swiss cake rolls in the cabinet does, although of a different sort. Outside the valanced window the backyard bakes, grass and cracked wood thirsting for water and varnish. But it’s not that bad, not today. The sky isn’t so severely blue that it hurts to lean over the sink and look up at the shreds of clouds overhead.

Turn to the wood-paneled cabinets, drawers. The fridge, badged with almost nothing. Ice from the built-in dispenser, drop into a glass freckled with dried water spots, resuscitate the soda. Open the pantry, minimally inhabited, and drop the empty can— no, wait, the recycling bin’s in the garage. It can wait.

Why back here?

The memories have to be pasted over with nostalgia. Have to be. But they’re not. The thoughtfulness of now happened then, too, right here, leaning against a kitchen counter, on the alcoved toilet of the master bathroom, key in the front door lock. No, it isn’t nostalgia alone holding this return together. The memories hold true— but the question still remains valid. Why back here?

Why not the one east of here, fifteen minutes’ walk in the unglazed sun, home more sharply definitive weeks and months? Why not the dorm rooms in two different states, or the apartments in two countries that grow more foreign every time they’re thought of?

Night now. Coffee and yellow lamplight and the blessed exhalation so high up the wall. The living room, living, spilling proof of its vitality through the closed blinds. The recliner has won the battle of comfort, though there is grave, furious competition from the sofa (armed with pillows and a familiar blue blanket) and even the floor, where the carpet stull looks freshly vacuumed. The floor promises expanse, unbounded horizontal mobility.

The lamp’s shade either came in that hue or bathed in cigarette smoke long ago, before this thenthere herenow. Cigarettes are a rarity in this place, but the living room is not a complete stranger to small glass ashtrays and shanghaied glassed and cups. The driveway, out there in the dark, is where the ashes are usually scattered, and the bushes by the door are a graveyard of uncounted butts. The lamp, back to the lamp, pseudo-wood and brass, ponderous, well-traveled, an old welcome friend.

Midbrain hum of the television conspires with the last sips of cooling coffee and the blanket— wrested from the exhausted couch— to push away more questions. At last:

“Mulder, it’s me.”

votethroneswherethehellisthatcartridge?

I'm considering voting for Kinky Friedman for Governor of Texas next year. He's a legitimate human being, and while I have no real faith in the political systems of this state, country, or world, it would be a massive leap forward for the Lone Star State to have someone in office that's not a soulless piece of shit.

As usual, I've spent some of my last-few-days-before-payday funds on albums. I picked up Bad Brains' first album, Thrones' Day Late, Dollar Short, which I enjoy a lot more than Sperm Whale, and Ginnungagap's contribution to the Latitudes series that Southern Records is releasing. Of these three albums, the only one I can recommend to just about anyone would be the Bad Brains album. Thrones aren't something that folks who don't like one-man heavy (but not necessarily metal) drum machine/distorted bass/outre electronic weirdness would dig, though I'd be happy to be proved wrong. Ginnungagap might strike fans of folk/acoustic/drone/etc. the right way, but I suspect your average listener wouldn't be down for a quartet of long songs with no vocals.

Somewhere in this house is the replacement cartridge for my turntable, as well as the large-hole adapter for 45s. I remember almost leaving them at the old place, only to put them in a box at the last minute. Which box? Good question.

I hope my brother's having fun in Europe.

Gimme fried chicken and a volume of Coleridge!

Oh, how meaningful! The Corpse speaks for the first time from his new tomb. Naturally, I feel like there's nothing much to say, although for anyone who's stuck keeping up with me via this site might argue otherwise. For their sake, and my own, because I feel the need to write but don't want to work on Unheimlich, which I updated a couple days ago with twenty pages of new stuff.

Life with Dave has been pretty much as I expected it: quiet and pleasant. I... shit, I don't feel like doing this right now. I'm going to go buy beer and listen to some more Deep Purple. Pardon the lack of insight into my daily life, but hey, beer and records are the most important parts thereof, right?

Si, yo vivo.

Brief update from my brother's computer, since I still have no internet access at the new place. I am now living six blocks down W. Alabama with Dave Mann, and that's going well. I turned twenty-six this past Sunday, and celebrated the event with a minimum of fanfare. I received beer, cigarettes, a cherry pie, and a copy of China Mieville's The Scar, courtesy of Tracey, my brother, Sara, and Andy, respectively. The Scientist also burned me a couple choice albums, which I'm grateful for. I bought myself a couple albums and books too- having Half Price Books pretty much around the corner is gonna be great.

Very little else going on, naturally, but I can say I've gotten more writing done in the past long weekend than I have in weeks. Still not a lot, but it's an improvement, and I like what I'm doing. Oddly enough, while Unheimlich is taking me forever to write, I suspect it'll be the shortest novel I've written thus far.

I'll see y'all when I get back online permanently. Take it easy.

Yep.

The Mann rolled into town last night and I showed him our new digs. He seemed pleased, so all is well. We took care of the oven door and key problems, so now I'm taking my spare twenty minutes to write this and have a beer and a cigarette before I go buy ferret-related goods, pay my phone bill, and acquire a fine sheen of mid-day Houston sweat.

I think I'll name my daughter "Indolence Lassitudia."

Should I ever have one, and should whatever poor female bears the child acquiece, which won't happen.

Anyway, I spent the day before work eating Indian food and shopping for books with Cheyenne. Three for three. Because I got some birthday money from my parents the other day, I did the proper thing and spent almost half of it on books: David Foster Wallace's Everything and More, which I already know I'm completely unqualified to read, John Banville's Shroud, Peter Ackroyd's London: The Biography, which I've been eyeing for some time, and, most pleasantly of all, How To Be Idle by Tom Hodgkinson. While I've never gotten my hands on a copy of the magazine he edits, the Idler, I've read everything available on the website, and through it I've discovered all manners of people and things that share and expound my love for, well, idleness. How To Be Idle is an excellent read, both thematically and stylistically; Mr. Hodgkinson really knows how to convey the humanity of the idler's position, and without resorting to drunken swearing, as I'm prone to doing.

Now I'm waiting around for the Mann to arrive from Florida so I can show him our new apartment. It's been a good day, all in all, if you don't count that ten-hour stretch of work that wedged its way in there.

Exeunt foresight.

I should never have packed, and subsequently moved, my favorite H.P. Lovecraft volume. Thankfully, I do have Thomas Mann's utterly awesome The Magic Mountain at hand, as well as plenty of soy milk, toast, and black currant jam, so going to bed will be no trouble.

Good night, everyone. The next time you realize you'll be going to bed within the hour, find a good book, a good beverage, and admire the yellow lamplight. I will consider such thoughtful responses to domesticity my birthday present from you.

Should you choose to be grotesquely generous, you can help me buy a certain house in the suburbs when the time comes, and then leave me alone 80% of the time once I've moved in, barring extensions of cameraderie on my part.

19713.

Ceaselessly heavy these days.

Stop being Philistines. Buy the records I tell you to buy.

New and old stuff. No descriptions. It's all up to you. Wade knee deep in my world.

Hate Eternal- I, Monarch

Nile- Annihilation of the Wicked

The Moors- self-titled

Celtic Frost- Morbid Tales

Fates Warning- Awaken the Guardian

Cathedral- Supernatural Birth Machine

Metallica- Kill 'Em All

Darkthrone- Panzerfaust

Clutch- Clutch

Lorena McKennitt- The Book of Secrets

Elastica- Elastica

Sepultura- Chaos A.D.

Jucifer- War Bird

Sunn O)))- White1

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds- Henry's Dream

Thin Lizzy- Jailbreak

Emperor- Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk

Ulver- Perdition City

Catatonia- Equally Cursed and Blessed

Opeth- My Arms, Your Hearse

Current 93- Calling For Vanished Faces

High On Fire- Blessed Black Wings

Jack Rose- Raag Manifestos

Borknagar- Quintessence

Nest- Woodsmoke

Katatonia- Viva Emptiness

Negura Bunget- N'Crugu Bradului

Agalloch- The Mantle

...and so many, many more.

The gospel of FUCK IT!

You know what I love? Not giving a fuck. Every week, it seems, I run into one thing or another that should shove me into the oozy, worm-ridden pit of (usually temporary) depression, but I'm pretty good at either sidestepping the shoving force or, in less successful instances, merely ending up knee-deep in depression.

"How do you do it, Dave?" you ask. Simple, dude-brethren and dudette-sistren: I just say FUCK IT. Fuck it, man; it works for just about anything except legitimately heavy events, like deaths of loved ones or a really traumatic break-up or a scathing, painfully true review of your art or an alien abduction or whatever. (You know heavy when it hits you.) However, when you're dealing with just about anything else, saying "fuck it" really can get you back to where you belong, which, in my case, is cruisin' through life in the 1970 GTO Judge of my mind and soul.

Say it, brethren and sistren: FUCK IT!

-Just saw the chick or dude you've got a crush on kissin' someone else? Fuck it! People do what they do, and you'll find someone else soon enough.

-Can't find your car keys? Fuck it! You didn't need to be at work on time anyway.

-Soaked in sweat the minute you step outside? Fuck it! The summer's meant to be hot.

-Out of coffee? Fuck it! Folgers is shitty.

-Spent a few hundred bucks at the local Scientology center, only to find out you've been screwed? Fuck it! Now you know better.

-Woke up with a mysterious bruise or three? Fuck it! Next time you'll drink that sixer sitting down.

-Can't make heads or tails of that Heidegger book you're reading for class? Fuck it! Read it again when it's not four hours before the exam.


And so on. Basically, brethren and sistren, I've found that not taking yourself too seriously really does wonders for your life. Keep it casual, have a laugh at your own expense, and don't sweat anything that doesn't ontologically demand it, and you'll be all right. And I mean "all right," not just "all right."

Of course, I'm not Tony "holy shit, I suckered Trey Azagthoth" Robbins, so there are no guarantees, but on the other hand, you're gettin' this pseudo-philosophical fried gold for free, so fuck it!

This attempt at humorous honesty brought to you by a completely sober (!), but sweat-drenched, D.A. Smith. Y'all take it easy, have a good one, and remember that "yesterday's for mice and gods."

Procrastinaturi te salutamus

As y'all know, I'm moving next weekend. Thankfully, it's not far, and because my brother will still be in this apartment for a while, I don't have a definite deadline to have everything out by, though I don't want to take too long.

That said, I'm procrastinating. Everyone knows I would. It's what I do; there aren't a lot of things that I feel need to be taken care of immediately, especially when there's some minor diversion to be had. This weekend, such diversions have included:

-sitting
-laying down
-outlining the saga of the Rising Son (a Pat Morita/cursed koi Mississippi epic) with Andy and Kyle
-writing
-drinking beer
-hanging out at various times with Matt, Sara, Andy, Kyle, Andy, Nick, Tania, and my bro
-going to Karie's party

and so forth. It's Sunday afternoon now, and I should be boxing shit up in preparation of borrowing the Last Eve-mobile later and transporting said shit down the street. But I'm not, because I'm gonna write instead. Things will get done in their own time. This I know, and to act otherwise would be an affront to the Tao.

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

Deposit paid. Rent paid. Lease signed. Electricity hooked up. Money recovered from old man Anderson. New Clutch album (i.e. the only luxury for the next few weeks) purchased. Testicles liquified by mid-afternoon heat. Remaining energy shunted into writing email and full-body tactile study of the couch.

Two weeks and two days until my birthday. Come over, see the new place, listen to records, drink beer, watch Len Bracken's movie. Or don't. I'll turn twenty-six either way. Sunday, August 14. 1316 W. Alabama, apt. A, behind the violin shop.

Why I'm announcing this now, I don't know. Oh, yeah, I do- my brain is fried.

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

Fuck it.

Fuckin' A, I'm in the perfect state to convey my initial impressions of Brant Bjork's new (double- fuckin' double, dude! I can't wait for the fuckin' LP) album Saved By Magic, but then again, I'm also in the perfect state to just sit here and go fuckin' nuts over it without telling y'all anything but to BUY THIS IMMEDIATELY.

So far, the- THE- standout track for me is "Avenida De La Revolucion," which is a musical and lyrical perfect equivalent of All Right, the movie I've been wanting to make for a couple years now with Andy and Dave. If anything, I think I might have to forego the various-artists soundtrack I've had in mind for the movie in favor of a pure Brant Bjork soundtrack. But we'll see, man, we'll see.

Keep your cool, y'all.

Every now and then I wish I had cable, and now is one of those times, because Anthony Bourdain has a new show on the Travel Channel. If there's anything I dig, it's hard-drinking, sarcastic chefs who smoke a lot, write books, and eat still-beating cobra hearts. I owe Matt and Holly for telling me about this dude.

Last night I rented The Battle of Algiers, Suspiria, and Last House on the Left. I've watched the first one, which I recommend to anyone interested in history, colonialism, national independence movements, and terrorism, both revolutionary and state-sponsored. Next on the list is Suspiria, which is one of them there Eye-talian horror pictures by Dario Argento. Last House on the Left, as some of you may know, is Wes Craven's first movie, and from everything I've heard about it over the years, it's a brutal piece of work. I'm curious as to why I rented it, since my threshold for visuals of human suffering has plummeted over the years. I can listen to songs or read books extolling all manners of depravity with virtually no problem, but cinematic representations of people being treated like subhuman shit by other human beings isn't my cup o' coffee. Maybe watching LHOTL is some kind of moral exercise, or maybe I'm just a sick fuck. I'll let you know once I've actually screened it.

If Dr. Long Ghost doesn't make his mischevious presence known soon, I'm gonna have to start ripping the house apart in search of him. I hate when the ferrets disappear, because it just leads to extensive worry.

I should be packing, or making phone calls, or something equally important to my impending (and still less than finalized) move, but I'm in a funk. Ergo, I'm typing up this bit of writing I did the other day at work. I have no clue what I'll ever do with it, or if I'll finish it, if that's even likely. Enjoy, if you can.

--

There's that girl with the x-ed out fetuses tattooed across her stomach. She wears midriff-baring shirts so everyone can see just how many abortions she's had. Her eyes are completely dead, all the life in them drained out along with the pseudo-children she's had scraped out of her. But the tattoos prove something still flickers behind those eyes, something ghoulish and full of remembrance.
Some peple say she's been raped four times and had four subsequent abortions. Others say she's just a slut with a sick sense of humor. One guy I know admitted after a long night of vodka sours that he wanted to fuck her and get her pregnant just so she'd have another abortion and get the accompanying tattoo. He thought they were hot, those reddish near-human crescents covered by thick black Xs. I haven't talked to that guy since.
I wonder who else wants to fuck the fetus tattoo girl. Who'll be number five. Who'll make her an ace. Maybe there's only one supplier of abortion fodder, in which case he's on his way to becoming an ace too, although of a different kind.
Another rumor is that she has herself artificially insemenated, then waits a while and goes to the scrape doctor, either because she chickens out or likes killing fetuses. I've never seen her look pregnant, and nobody else I know has either.
Now that I think about it, the fetus tattoo girl is the best conversation piece ever. She's the power source of a rumor mill that cranks out speculation and libel about her and only her. Whenever anyone I know sees her on the street or at the bar, they report back to everyone. The girl has to know that everyone talks about her. She must want it. Nobody gets tattoos of their dead embryonic children on their four-time-pregnant belly if they want to be ignored. But she never seems to acknowledge any of the whispers. She just keeps walking, or drinking beer, or whatever, her colorless eyes focused on something others can't see. Or maybe they're not focused on anything at all.
She's very pretty, by the way. Of course, she'd have to be. You knew she would be. Nobody stares at ugly girls' stomachs, tattoos or not, do they. Of course not. But she's not so gorgeous that people's eyes bulge when they see those tattoos. That wouldn't work either. Too beautiful, and people are shocked to learn you have flaws, are anything less than, well, a beautiful person.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope the new Brant Bjork album arrives this weekend.

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

Motörhead, "I Ain't No Nice Guy"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once again, I love all y'all.

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

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

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

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














this.

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

All right.

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

Purchase Blood Inside immediately.

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

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

I hope I get to see Cheyenne tonight.

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

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

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

Hope all is well with y'all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seventeen is like gold." -Alan Moore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least the tunes kick ass.

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

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

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

Coda:

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

Download these songs and get yerself some kulchur.

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

Don't congratulate me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Velvet Cacoon never fail to fascinate me. I think this is the transcription of a taped conversation between the two members, SGL and LVG. Read it, and think about why or why not you like drugs, among other things. Then go get your hands on all the Velvet Cacoon material you can.

By the way, I don't know how long the VC piece will be up, so check it out while you can.

The new issue of McSweeney's is a veritable work of art. When it comes to anything other than books and albums, I could care less about packaging, but man, when I opened my first issue of my McSweeney's subscription today, I was blown away. On top of that, the stories I've read thus far have been nae shabby.

I think I'm gonna use some of my vacation time, once (or if) I get it, and go up to Uncle Smitty's for a few days. I'll borrow Scott's laptop, buy a case of beer and a few packs of Luckies, and chip in for groceries. I could use a little isolation, as well as my uncle's company.

"Snake got smoked on the set like Brandon Lee
Blown out the frame like Pan Am flight 103"

Fuckin' A. All hail the GZA.

"I can't fold
I need gold
read up and reload
product must be sold to you"

If I wasn't so lazy, and wouldn't wake up my brother once he goes to sleep, I'd get fucked up and listen to Unearthly Trance's In the Red at high volume. But since I am lazy, I'll just listen to it here in front of my computer and sip bourbon.

I'm always pleased to come home from work and find my brother still awake. He's always got something cool to say or show off, like this. He also brought home, courtesy of Van Cleve, seasons five and two of Buffy and Angel, respectively. My all-time-low productivity will only plummet further now. Or will it? I've actually got going again, kind of, with Unheimlich.

Whee.

I've come to the conclusion that as long as I have a job, Sunday night will never be fully enjoyable, especially at 3 AM. Funny how the real dread is purely quotidian and not at all cosmic or metaphysical- at least on Sunday nights.

I wish I had some Angel or Buffy to watch.

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I can safely say that I don't buy much in the way of useless shit- the last random non-alcohol/tobacco/music/book/food thing that I can remember purchasing was a 45 adapter for my turntable- so I hope that this guy doesn't hate me.

Spot on, in typical Onion fashion.

Another low-key weekend, which is pretty much just what I needed. Read a lot, played GTA: San Andreas, even wrote some. The only bad thing is that I'm some kinda broke; I had to take money out of savings just to make it to payday. I have learned to appreciate that extra stash of dough, which isn't something I had until last month.

Lots of Opeth being played these days; some right now, as a matter of fact. Hopefully it'll help me get a couple more pages done before I retire to read and prepare myself for another pyschologically enervating week of work.

Well, it's summertime again. Being in the West Alabama apartment again makes me think of the first summer I spent here, two years ago. I definitely miss those couple months of unemployment and writing and excitement over the impending publication of Axis Mundi Sum.

Last summer was all about being laid back. I think this one will be too, but in a different way. Different how, I don't know, but with each sweaty, desparate day that passes, I hope to be that much closer to figuring it out.

I've been reading here and there that voice actors for video games are threatening to strike unless they get a share of profits from the games they lend their talents to. These actors are, of course, unionized, which is probably the only reason they can make such a demand. Apparently, some of the folks who are bitching and moaning about this are the folks who actually make the games, who also want a cut of the profits. This is fair, if you ask me, but:

Boo fuckin' hoo. Yeah, your labor conditions fucking suck, we know, but you know what? If you want a cut, stop working 80 hours a week for peanuts and either join a union or form one of your own. Who gives a fuck about the possibility of strikes ("oh no, it means I can't work!") and spending time negotiating contracts? Just fucking do it, and if you do it right, you've got nothing to do but get ahead. Besides, if your unionization means that the cost of the end product goes up, and possibly forces production to Europe or Asia or wherever, so be it. If you're so fucking worried about creativity, and you find out that some underpaid dude in China or Holland is making quality games, fine. You know what you can do? Urge him to organize his workplace too. Fuck, people, just cough up your union dues every month and guarantee yourselves some fucking security and decent compensation for working on crap games.

Yeah, this is an incoherent mash of thoughts, but it boils down to a couple things. One: if you hate your working conditions, either quit or unionize (or, if you're unionized, bust your ass to renegotiate your contract, or join a different union). Two: shit changes. You may join the union, watch things go well for a while, and then watch someone across the pond take your job. It happens. The same thing will happen to them sooner or later. It's not a very comforting thought in the short term, but you know what? History doesn't care how you feel, and if you do what you can, maybe you can at least some kind of mark and make things better for someone- be it yourself, a family member, or a complete stranger- somewhere down the line.

While I wish the best for everyone in the here and now, I just can't get worked up over the fate of one particular nation, group, or whatever when I think in terms of history and the future. Que será, será, folks. Protect what you love while you can, but don't expect it to last forever.