Categorization.

I've never tagged any of my writing here, mostly out of laziness but partially because of my disinterest in sorting my posts into categories that would feel either forced or merely convenient. I'd say that my muttering does often lend itself to tagging- poetry, personal stuff, music, etc.- but I don't see any reason to label individual entries in what is essentially an ongoing chronicle of, let's face it, whatever happens to capture my attention long enough to write about it online. I don't have any problems with categories (if I did, I wouldn't haunt the stacks at the library as often as I do), and I'm certainly not claiming that my, ahem, "work" defies categorization. I'm just not interested in doing it myself.

I probably should have joined LiveJournal a long time ago, I guess, but fuck it. The Corpse Speaks: music, writing, nostalgia, beer, books, life's small triumphs and looming defeats, and anything else are all fair game, unsorted save by date of publication. Just like a notebook, or that journal you wish you'd destroyed after senior year wound down and left you with a knot in your stomach, wondering what the hell would come next.


now playing: The Human Instinct, Stoned Guitar

Scott's Stash: Birth of the Dawn

What? Two posts in one day? Why is that, you ask? Because yours truly doesn't feel like tackling his Chinese homework yet, that's why. My procrastination gives you...

Orodruin- Birth of the Dawn (1999)

This pick looked dubious from the start. The liner notes have that ragged desktop printer thing going on, but since this is a remastered demo (not listed on the Encyclopedia Metallum, by the way, though the demo is), shitty packaging is acceptable. There are three songs here, or more accurately two songs, the first of which is a two-parter. The CD is completely unlabeled.

I have no idea how my brother acquired this, but I'm glad he did. This is fuckin' rad. "Birth of the Dawn/Sons of Nature" opens with some speedy traditional metal riffage that continues on for a while before the vocals show up- I thought it was going to be an instrumental. The overall sound of this first track brings to mind something that never happened: my brother's old band Last Eve playing Iron Maiden's "Losfer Words/Big 'Orra." Which probably means nothing to you, but that's not my problem.

"Creation Through Death" hits the brakes and lurches into doom mode. Whether this song's as good as the first is a matter of taste, but it's no slouch in the musicianship department. For a demo, this has remarkably clear production; I wonder what the unremastered original sounded like. My main complaint is that the vocals aren't as strong as the music demands. They're adequate, but not much more than that.

Birth of the Dawn is a nice little find for a Wednesday afternoon, and proof that the heavy metal demo is as cool as ever.

Scott's Stash: The Grand Leveller

This one comes from the batch of albums that Drew gave my brother:

Benediction- The Grand Leveller (1991)

Once more I find myself holding an album belonging to a band whose name I've known for ages but have never listened to. At some point I'm going to stop even bothering to mention this, as it'll probably be the norm for this series.

Actually Benediction's music isn't completely new to me, at least in part. Dave Ingram replaced Karl Willetts as the vocalist for Bolt Thrower from 1998 until 2004. I've always liked the one album Bolt Thrower released with Ingram on vocals, so when I went searching for an album to listen to while driving down the toll road and saw The Grand Leveller, I knew that even if the music sucked, the vocals wouldn't.

Of course, I didn't expect that the music would actually suck. Lo and behold, it turned out to be damned good. The production and overall tone of the instruments dates the album in the best way possible: it's the sound of British death metal a few years past its infancy but well before death metal's general decline into frustrating mediocrity in the late '90s. Not that nothing good came out of those years, but the early '90s produced some really good shit, and the response to some of it (i.e., black metal) was inspiring, too. The Grand Leveller is a good example of that time, if a lesser-known one.

Dave Ingram sounds good here, as does the rest of the band (not that I have a point of comparison). The songs are varied in tempo and mood, but not in a predictable, slow-doomy-number-now-something-faster-now-a-couple-midpaced-ones way. The riffs are killer, and the solos are too. As I mentioned earlier, I like the production; the heaviness of the music doesn't rely on it, and it accentuates what I think of as the outer edges of the sound. The lyrics aren't awful, but they're not particularly good, either. (I'm leaving the issue of the importance of lyrics alone.) There's a Celtic Frost cover here that's cool enough, but feels unnecessary, as covers often do.

Overall, Benediction surpassed my expectations. One thing I've noted as I've listened to this album a few times is that it works well as a complete unit, to the point where I don't have a favorite song. That could be a reflecting on how I listen to music, but I think it's more a sign of a well-crafted and well-played album. This isn't unique in death metal, but it's always a pleasure to put on a record and be able to listen to it all the way through, knowing that there's a sick riff or real headbanging part just around the corner. Good shit.


P.S. The photo of Dave Ingram in the liner notes is priceless.

星期四跟星期五一样吗？

Despite four weeks of gainful unemployment, Thursday nights still feel like the equivalent of Friday nights. It'll change with time, I'm sure, but old habits die hard. It's past midnight and I'm done beating my head against the wall working on the new potential novel, so I've been delving into the PDFs that came with my recent purchase of Lamentions of the Flame Princess: Weird Fantasy Role-Playing. It's all great stuff- so much so that I'm having a hard time reading one particular rulebook and keep switching between them. It doesn't help that I bought a couple-three modules as well, all of which seem rich with potential.

Life's all kinds of busy these days. There's school, moving in with the wife, planning for the wedding, planning for my summer study and honeymoon in China, figuring out what classes to take in the fall, adjusting to a new laptop (and a new OS, which is Windows- blargh), plans to edit/rewrite Critical Hits, research and writing for the new novel, trying to keep my AD&D game together, schemes for the LOTFP game I want to run in the fall... this is probably the busiest year I've had in a long time, and I'm sure there are events and activities I'm forgetting.*

It's late. I should go to bed, but I think I'll keep reading the LOTFP rules. I never followed James Raggi's old heavy metal zine of the same name that closely, but I'm pleased to see that the dedication he put into it has transferred to his role-playing efforts.

G'night!

*I just remembered the "Scott's Stash" series- I've got a couple albums lined up for it, but haven't posted my writeups yet. Soon enough, soon enough...

"Awe. Yeah." (+coda)

"Awe. Yeah."

Sometimes in the middle of the afternoon
you run across some amazing mo
ments
nothing that you expected or created or decided
upon
against all good timing and all good sense
you see something
hear something
feel something
that hits the switch in your tired brain bank
and pops that vault wide
open
doesn't matter if the words come out wrong
much less if the scansion's weak as Pong
gotta push rhymes sometimes
to get through the interstitial gristle
and address the joy that comes with moments like
this all alone with a beer and a mind that knows
despite knowing better on all fronts
fuck the words
moon pointing at the finger and shit
no crossed signals blink
of the eye
knuckles against palm
words in cat's ears
string it out bounce it off the walls
the walls
oh shit! oh shit!
the smile's pushed the rhyme scheme
out the room (out the room)
check the fridge for caffeine
the savior of later
ignore the hater that's you put 'em in lockdown
like history and Nader vote two thousand
oops got it backward
and things fall apart
things chinua achebe wants nothing to do with
this is the end when my eyes scan
up and down
and up and down
but it doesn't
mean that this motherfucking poem
isn't a heart: split 'em!
paean to what me and them and you
and the rest of the world can do
even for a long-assed head-bobbing
summation of the moment
when all the weirdness is pooling
and the pituitary's drooling
down the CNS
There's nothing better than right now.
Stand back
head back
bask in the tracks and strings and ho
liness of what makes you smile unabashed.

Awe.
Yeah.

---

This shitty poem is dedicated to, in no particular order:

my fiance, Saint Arnold beer, shit poetry, growing up nerdy, Orange Kitty, Matt "Scientist"/"Poet" Swulius, the first frustrating hour of Phantasy Star II, Red Pine, 8-Bit Boys, Youtube videos, studying Chinese, fresh headphones, Last.fm on Netflix on Xbox360, all the other loves of my life, and yours fuckin' truly.

Live life, but no more than conscience dictates. Don't do what I've done and let the past capture and paralyze your imagination. Don't sweat perfection. Good times are now Dissect the past like the Renaissance man dissected human bodies. Learn. Right now is it, and this is it.

Scott's Stash: Maiden America

Today's edition of "Scott's Stash" covers one album and eleven bands:

V/A- Maiden America- Iron Maiden Tribute & American Metal Compilation

This is a two-disc set: the first being a series of Iron Maiden covers by underground and/or lesser-known American metal bands c. 1999, and the second being original songs by those bands. I haven't listened to the second disc, because I didn't know it was included until I was halfway through the Maiden covers disc, and I went into this album with Iron Maiden on the brain. Maybe I'll write up the second disc sometime, but don't hold your breath.

In the paragraph above I mentioned "American metal bands." This simultaneously means "metal bands from the United States" and "bands that play American heavy metal," which in turn means, by my lazy and imprecise definition, "heavy metal inspired by late '70s metal, the NWOBHM, and offshoots thereof such as thrash and speed metal, melding the lot into what might also be termed 'traditional metal'."

Enough heavy metal etymology. I'd venture to guess that my brother got this album from one of the Agalloch dudes when he was a regular correspondent with/web designer for them. Agalloch, one of the greatest bands ever, shares members with Sculptured, who appear on Maiden America and whose debut album I remember seeing reviewed in the pages of Sentinel Steel.* Sculptured provides the only really memorable cover here, pretty much by virtue of being Sculptured- i.e., the weird metal-jazz band on the compilation that doesn't sound "like Maiden if Maiden had a different vocalist/guitar tone/faster riffs/whatever."

Not to say that the other bands suck, because they don't. There are some good covers here; hell, they're all competent, but the problem is that they're almost all forgettable. Even when there's something that stands out- Final Prayer's growling intro to "Killers," the quicker pace of Twisted Tower Dire's "Powerslave," Sadus being Sadus on "Invaders," and what I'll call the standard-plus (or Standard+) approach to "Hallowed Be Thy Name" provided by Edenrot- the compilation as a whole suffers from half-assed production and a slavish love of the source material. These factors combine to give the impression that the bands played their hearts out of songs they love, but under horrible recording conditions and without any interest in or ability to make these Iron Maiden songs their own.

I hate saying things like that because the bands involved inevitably sound like amateurs. I don't think that's the case here, because the musicianship is completely up to snuff with the original Iron Maiden songs; there's just not the level of individuality I like to see on tribute albums. (See Nativity In Black, where the songs were identifiable as Black Sabbath tunes, but with the artist's own spin on them.) There are flashes of it here and there, and the bands don't all sound the same, but there's an undeniable similarity across the board. Sculptured, and to a lesser degree Sadus and Edenrot, are the exceptions.

I admire the spirit that went into this. Iron Maiden is a force of nature in the metal world, and the bands on this compilation proved their appreciation. They just did a relatively undistinguished job of it, which is hard to fault given the constraints of the album's theme.

The more I think about it, the more likely it is I'll give disc two of this album a spin. No, scratch that- I'll look into the bands' own work. I'm really curious to see how everyone does for themselves without having to try and live up to Iron Maiden.

And, honestly, I'm looking forward to the next album in my brother's collection.


*I think. According to the Encylopedia Metallum, Sculptured's first album wasn't released until 1998, when I would'nt have had access to Sentinel Steel, but I could swear I saw it mentioned or discussed before then. Who knows; memory is a fickle and untrustworthy thing.

High of semntysome'n.

It's begun: the light is falling differently as the seasons shift, and my brain moves accordingly. I love this time of year, these lengthening sunsets, the sense of manageable urgency as days fade into nights that, when I was younger, felt like new phases of the day, but as of late are over before I know it, in bed by 11 PM and nodding off over a page of Mason & Dixon or In Search of Lost Time.

Doesn't matter, this shit is still pretty rad. I hope you think so too. Enjoy your spring, folks.

DAS

now playing: Brant Bjork, Gods and Goddesses

Scott's Stash: The Dark Saga

Today, folks, I'm listening to...

Iced Earth- The Dark Saga (1996)

I don't know who was responsible for my brother getting heavily into Iced Earth not long after we moved back to Texas in 1997, but they deserve a handshake. While never groundbreaking, Iced Earth was (and still is, at least the last time I heard them) a solid metal band with roots in traditional American metal. Their endless parade of band members has, vocalists aside, never seemed to hurt the band, because sole original member Jon Schaffer has always stuck to his guns.

Anyway, The Dark Saga is Iced Earth's fourth album, and second with Matt Barlow, who's been the best singer they've ever had. It's a strong album- again, there are no great surprises- until the last three songs, which are components of a greater song called "The Suffering." This trio of songs packs less punch than the rest of the album ("The Hunter," where I really dig the drumwork, and "Vengeance is Mine" stand out) and things lose some steam. It's a shame, because the first seven songs keep up a good pace. "The Suffering" strikes me as a forerunner to some of IE's later multi-song concept pieces, none of which really worked that well for me. Don't think I'm saying the last 30% of The Dark Saga sucks, because it definitely doesn't- it's just not as good as the rest of the album.

All in all, this is a metal album you can throw on without being blown away or disappointed by. Better than background music, but nothing you really need to wrap your head around. Dependable records like this aren't exactly rare, but there never seem to be enough of 'em.

P.S. The whole album is a concept album, really- or maybe I should call it a thematic record. What's the theme? Spawn. As in "Todd McFarlane's," "Image Comics," "parodied in the pages of Cerebus," "made into a shitty movie" Spawn. Don't sweat it too much. It works well enough, and this is heavy metal, after all.

Scott's Stash: Introduction/Triarchy of the Lost Lovers

Before my brother hit the road for California, he asked me if I wanted his CD collection. Not only has he embraced digital storage of music more than I, he didn't want the hassle of packing so many CDs. I haven't counted them, but there are probably a couple hundred. Like me, my brother is a metalhead, so I was eager to take the discs off his hands.

Some of them I already own, but there are a lot I don't; there are also many I've heard over the years, but don't remember. And, best of all, there are plenty I've never heard at all- things I didn't know my brother had, stuff his friend Drew gave him, or CDs I'd see around the house or in his room that I never got around to checking out. Now's my chance.

My plan is to listen to as many of Scott's old albums as I can- ones that aren't duplicates of things I have in my collection, or dumb shit like U2, the presence of which is Drew's fault, according to my brother- and write a little bit about each one. Not reviews, necessarily, just some thoughts about the music and all the things that come with listening to music. Since I'm quitting my job next week, time shouldn't be much of an obstacle, so I hope to make this a regular feature.

First up: Rotting Christ- Triarchy of the Lost Lovers (1996)

A name I've known for a while, Rotting Christ has nonetheless never received much of my attention. I know I listened to this album at least once- the band's name and the cover art all but guaranteed that- but that would've been sometime in the late '90s. I always think of my old friend Fran when I think of Rotting Christ; I recall he was a big fan.

A name I've known for a while, Rotting Christ has nonetheless never received much of my attention. I know I listened to this album at least once- the band's name and the cover art all but guaranteed that- but that would've been sometime in the late '90s. I always think of my old friend Fran when I think of Rotting Christ; I recall he was a big fan.

This album is really good. Mid-paced black metal from a period when black metal was starting to inform other metal styles and vice-versa. It's neither raw and simplistic nor symphonic and overblown; Rotting Christ has something unique going on here, though maybe someone more well-versed in Greek black metal could contest that. I thought the overall tempo would wear on me, but the songwriting and the understated atmosphere keep things interesting. Some great guitar work doesn't hurt, either. Generally speaking, everything works together quite well- I listened to the album twice without feeling like I had to skip a song, which is always a pleasant occurrence.

I hope there's another Rotting Christ album somewhere in the stash. Even if there isn't, this is a good start to this project. Later, folks.

Edge of nowhere.

Awesome, yet rough, night. My mind moves back to where I want to be, where I'll never be. Heart swells to a tune that I'll probably never fully share. It's all views from 45 here, dreaming about what happens in that house I've never truly left...

There's no going back, but fuck me if I don't feel like I'm some kind of traitor if I don't try. Synthesis is inadequate. So is everything else.

Sleep now. Read Edward Whittemore's books. ASAP.

Otra vez.

Classes start tomorrow. I'm staying up late tonight out of principle, by which I mean "in defiance of common sense." I've barely kept up with my Chinese over the past month, and while my on-and-off-again studies have surprised me with how much I've retained, my active memory feels atrophied. There's a precedent for this- last winter break, to be precise, and the yawning chasm that is the summer between semesters- so I'm not terribly worried. That said, I am worried, because I've established a good reputation in the Chinese Studies department and I don't want to let it slip due to laziness.

Ah, laziness, the most underrated of virtues and most maligned of vices. I'm almost ashamed to say that I'm unsure whether I've used this weblog to expound on laziness in the past, but that's probably the case. At the moment I'm not inclined to do so, because the Ourobouros of idleness refuses to let go of its tail, which leaves me here at two-something in the morning, relishing the last minutes of this long interstitial period, its attendant heavy metal and beer dregs and exhausted wonder...

This is it, folks. This is how it's always been and always will be.

Your humble Corpse as husband-to-be.

Yep, I'm getting married.

I've been with Tracey for almost four years now, and it's been great. So great that, after several months of serious thought, I asked her to marry me last week. It wasn't a grandiose, romantic thing- that's not really my style, and the proposal was as much a result of circumstances as deliberation- but it felt right, and still does. I love this woman dearly, and I easily see us spending our lives together.

It's an interesting and exciting time, but not in a conventional sense: I'm not a giddy twentysomething in the throes of heady romance, but rather a dude who's immensely lucky to have had several years of solid happiness with another person. Marriage will be a continuation, and deepening, of that happiness, and that's what I find awesome. Of course, it's not exciting only on my end; if I wasn't sure that she felt the same, I'd be far more nervous than I am. (To my delight, I'm not really nervous at all, except when I contemplate all the logistical worries that come with impending marriage.) We're a great pair made of a couple solid individuals, and the overlay of the two will make for a fulfilling life together.

I'm stoked. So is Tracey. So are our friends. This is gonna be a blast.

Catch y'all soon. Love always.

-DAS

Man, oh man!

Big news forthcoming. Dig thee the Bully soundtrack in the meantime.

2011!

Happy New Year, folks.

So far, so good. New Zealand wine, a late night banging out what will be the first of many projects for the year, Type O Negative mini-marathon through the new headphones... yeah, so far so good.

Other folks have expressed great expectations for 2011, but I honestly have no clue what I expect from this year. Nothing, really: I'll take it as it comes, though I won't say I have no hopes for the next 360-odd days. I'm just not sure what they are.

For now, I'll just say all hail Type O Negative's version of "Paranoid" and writing, which go hand in hand in the small hours.

Yule MMX.

Here we are, approximately 2,010 years after the birth of a near-mythical figure whose life and death are supposed to have delivered mankind from the uglier results of death. I've got a cup of wine, a few salvaged cigarette butts, a slow internet connection, heavy metal, and the prospect of sharing a room with my (literally) snotty nephew before me. It'd be easy to deride the value of Christmas if these banal things constituted the whole of my holiday experience, but seeing as how they don't- it's only 00:49, and my family awaits when I drag my corpse from bed- I'll venture to say that while Christmas ain't what it was when I was a kid, it's still worth celebrating even if you don't care about Jesus or Mithras or Saturnalia or the solstice. It's good to be here: Christmas reminds me of that, and that's enough for me for now.

Merry Christmas, folks. Here's to you, whether you're enjoying family or sweating it out alone. Without you, this wouldn't even exist.

My love always, for each and every one of you.

Yours,
Dave Smith

Axis Mundi Sum in e-book form!

Behold, my novel in electronic (and much cheaper) form! Buy yourself, and everyone you know, a copy for Christmas. I get a fistful of coins, you get hours of entertainment, and everyone wins.

"Hey! What's cool?"

"Oh nothing."

NOTHING IS COOL.

So sayeth Blockhead Skateboards, back in the day. I sometimes feel like they got it right (though I'm sure it was just a funny ad and not an existential statement). But then I remember stuff like

/b/
MC Frontalot
8bc.org
Judas Priest
Welcome to the NHK
oil pastels
nutritional yeast
glasses
writing

etc. etc., and life is good. (If still confusing.)

Musical selections as of late.

Winterfylleth- The Mercian Sphere
Fen- The Malediction Fields
MC Frontalot- Zero Day
Twin Stumps- Live 10.17.09
Grails- Black Tar Prophecies vol. 5
The Sword- Warp Riders
Marblebog- Forestheart

Research, listen, enjoy.

Cyclical.

How much can I write about late nights, up alone with only music and bad habits and the internet keeping me company?

A lot, apparently.

Right now I'm wallowing in nostalgia and not sleeping, which I should be doing since I have a Chinese test in the morning. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's not doing what I should be doing. I'd say that some day this will cost me dearly, but I'm sure it already has, in subtle and ultimately painful ways.

Listen to this song.

Another glass of water, and off to bed. 明天，我要考式。明天晚上，自由。

史大韦

Aww, yeah.

To rephrase the mighty YTCracker, "I remember way back in '99 when I could write all night".

I miss that shit. These days- or nights, rather- I get so distracted by bullshit when I stay up late with the intent to write. C'est la vie.

Speaking of nerdcore, I saw Schaffer the Darklord, MC Frontalot, and MC Chris a couple weekends back. It was killer.

Back to writing. Can't wait to see how rough tomorrow morning goes.

最后天气很凉快！

A cold front has finally moved in, and it looks like the temperature won't break 80 degrees anytime soon. This being Texas, that could change, but for the time being I'm going to enjoy being able to wear long-sleeved shirts, running my Jeep's heater (not because I need the warmth, but so I know it works when regular cold weather sets in), and listening to appropriate music.

Speaking of music, it appears Agalloch is releasing a new record later this month. I try not to buy much of anything these days, but this is an album that I'll definitely have Sound Exchange set aside for me.

I think I've started another novel. I say that because, at its current 25 pages, this project is too long for a short story, and I have tons more ideas waiting to be put into words. Maybe it's a novella; I can't say for sure. The going is slow- I work on it maybe once or twice a week, and the page count rises much more slowly than it did compared to novels I wrote in the past- but steady. That steadiness is really the main factor that leads me to believe I've got a potential novel on my hands. Another feature of this particular work in progress is that it's clearly a first draft. In the past, I rarely wrote anything expecting to go back and edit the hell out of it. This beast is ripe for rewriting, although I am trying to polish it as I go along, as long as doing so doesn't bog down actual progress.

More later. Hopefully sooner-than-later later and not months-later later. Apologies, dear readers. I hope y'all are well, and here's wishing an intriguing, meaningful autumn to all y'all.

DAS

nightside.

According to the folks playing the AD&D game (second edition, but fuck them shitty '95 rulebooks, which we're stuck with because the OG versions have apparently disintegrated to the point of unavailability) I'm in the midst of running, I'm a decent Dungeon Master. This is gratifying to no end, not only because I seem to have retained my knack for making up shit on the fly, but because for the first time in years I have a killer gaming group. On top of that, the game is set in a world I've created and continue to create, which is something I've never done. Good shit, good shit. These things are what makes role-playing what it is.

I should be in bed now. I have class tomorrow, and believe you me that Chinese is a harsh mistress. Yet here I am, chuckling to myself about the stupidest of things, the awesomest of things, the things that don't look or sound like dharma but are, because everything is dharma, even exhausted late nights and heavy metal and AD&D and sleeping girlfriends and daydreams about suburbia. Even if every bad decision has its stupid-ass rationalization.

Just being human, dude. Just being. Human.

"Career Aspirations"

The only title
I ever want:
"Dungeon Master."

"Figment, Spitted"

So:
here's the famous
-nay, infamous, if I was to buy his line,
though I don't know if I even buy "famous"-
writer,
with his beer bottle collection,
daily zazen,
heavy metal records and t-shirts,
incessant smoking, piles of books,
and who knows how many other
affectations
(I'm sorry, "idiosyncrasies").

Weird hours,
lazy skateboarding
(stop being a pussy, dude),
Chinese studies,
broad yet shallow intellect:

All this shit is absurd enough,
but where is the output to justify his status?
Where are the novels, poems, essays?
Am I really expected to take his word for it,
or worse,
these words as proof that he's a "writer"?

Please.
There are teenagers who've written more,
and had better receptions
on- and off-line,
than this guy.

I'll take a page from his book
(The Big Copout: Recent History and Personal Failure)
and leave it be for the time being.
Maybe he'll write something in the interim that breathes life into
the author he sometimes thinks he is,
and that the future
-in his mind-
might not revere, but at least relegates to
a comfortable cult niche.

Nice try.

Grazie, Ezio

Earlier this year I played Assassin's Creed 2. Tracey got it as a surprise, and a surprise it was, given that I liked the original game somewhat, but not enough to even get close to finishing it. The story was compelling, but the gameplay was lackluster. The sequel, however, was a blast from start to finish, due in no small part to the setting: Renaissance Florence. Everyone from Lorenzo "il Magnifico" de Medici to Niccolo Machiavelli to Leonardo da Vinci showed up at one point or another, and the historical notes about people and architecture showed that the design team wasn't merely content to slap a facade of historicity over a generic game. I loved it.

As a result, I've picked up an additional, if not quite as intense, line of study. As you may know, I'm currently studying Chinese at the University of Houston, but I've started delving into Renaissance Florentine history. I intend to read up on Venice, and possibly other major Italian city-states/republics as well, but for now I'm concentrating on Florence. It's fascinating to read about the myriad factors that not only helped birth the modern era, but the place itself.

Now, I have no intention of dropping Chinese in favor of Florentine history, but it's refreshing to have an interest in a subject as captivating as Chinese language and history that doesn't require as massive an investment of time as Chinese does. My interest in Florence reminds me of my long-standing interest in the Great War: both are compelling without being so to the point of fixation, and both shed light on my understanding not only of the past, but the present. Which is, of course, one of the foremost reasons to study history.

Who says video games aren't educational? Now all I have to do is wait until November for Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood, wherein I get to explore Rome- the Eternal City which at one point was seemingly populated only by prostitutes and priests. In the meantime, I'm tempted to put aside my autumn playthrough of Bully in favor of replaying Assassin's Creed 2, but who knows if that'll happen.

Here's to history, games, and where the twain shall meet!

Autumn approaches! What will you do?

Here in Houston, autumn's still distant, but that doesn't stop me from dreaming of cool, crisp weather, (some) fallen leaves, intensified studies, and a painfully long-delayed replay to one of the best video games ever, Bully. I start classes on Monday, whereupon I have to prove my worth to the Chinese department so that I can get a scholarship to the Middle Kingdom next summer. This year my teacher is a native putonghua/zhongwen speaker, which makes the semester all the more intense. If all goes well, she'll put up with me; otherwise, I'm gonna be in a situation so miserable, and so unlike all the other failures in my life, that I won't know what to do. I never know what to do, but at the age of thirty-one, my chances of surviving flat-out rejection are a) lower than I'd like and b) nightmarish, as in hound of hell.

Apologies, folks. Sleep well- you have no clue how much an extra blanket runs.

"31st birthday"

On my birthday
there were nine
(I think it was nine)
bodies under sheets,
bodies and sheets alike
carved from marble. I didn't
know it at the time,
which was good.
Delay begat more power.

What will happen tonight
that I won't understand
until tomorrow?

Quotidiana/Musing

My girlfriend's sitting next to me writing up some kind of LARP-style adventure I'm to embark on, with the help of friends, this coming Saturday in celebration of my 31st birthday. We're listening to MC Lars, whose 2008 gig at the White Swan was, we've agreed, was one of the best shows ever. I like commas and long sentences. Now I'm gonna watch "I'm On A Boat," 'cause it rules.

I want to recommend that all y'all watch GET LAMP, Jason Scott's new documentary about text adventures. It's fantastic, even if you've never played a video game that didn't rely on graphics. His other film, BBS: The Documentary, is equally stirring, and is also worthy of your discretionary dollars/euros/yuan. If, like me, your consciousness managed to enter the flow of history at a time when both or either of the phenomena Mr. Scott's documentaries were prevalent, they'll be even more striking. My seemingly unbreakable attachment to the artifacts of my youth- many of which are artifacts of a time when I was far too young to really make the most of 'em, but which survived in recognizable enough forms for me to revel in what came before as well as the latter-day iterations- is only reinforced by Mr. Scott's work.

Now, this isn't about nostalgia. (Not entirely, at least.) This is about recognizing the things and events that in retrospect and at the time shaped my world- and still do. Text games and non-WWW sites still matter. Sure, 99% of the games I play and sites I visit are graphics- and WWW-based, respectively, but that doesn't mean that the remaining fraction are negligible. Investigating games like Galatea and logging onto SDF via SSH are important, not only because they're reminders of what life as a computer user was like a decade and a half ago, but because they still matter. People still enjoy and make great use of resources that seem outdated or outright foreign to the majority. That is why they matter.

I could extend my argument to a number of other subjects, most notably heavy metal and role-playing games. The "retro" movements in both of those fields are not purely nostalgic, but draw elements from the early finest hours of said fields in order to produce useful, enjoyable modern results. There's no denying that history lessons in any subject can be grasped and twisted to the point of slavish recreation, but the best of anything that left a mark on the past should serve as both a milestone and a jumping-off point for future work.

I suspect Jason Scott would be with me on this poorly-argued train of thought, but who knows. Thanks for reading, and I'm either sorry or pleased that this post wasn't just poetry.

Time for bed. 再见，朋友。

We are

We are the rotting corpse
That strides the earth
We are the neural path
formed from a lifetime of silence
We are the collapsed vein
of every addict's final moment
We are the written word
written by the word for the word
We are the ragged mess
that is the dilettante's true garb
We are the snowy peak
attempted by the Beast
We are the bleeding black
that swallows the westbound sun
We are the hempen noose
around the heretic's neck
We are the red raw lesion
in the side of a leprous body politic
We are
We are

pome number something something

How many nods can you give
to self-destruction,
to third person observations of
bad habits makin' the moment
the moment?

How much math adds up
to justification
(shit, rationalization)
of times makin' the subject
predicate?

Ain't none, really:
blink dry-mouthed,
light another stoge, punctuate the
headphone quiet,
and write another desperate line.

And another. Another.
Pause. Long,
long pause.
Another.
Another.

Reframe a year on,
when everything's different
but not at all.
Interstitial itches just get worse
and goddamn if the failure don't weigh a ton more.

Now's still now,
even a year on.
It's what we do, me and y'all both,
pushing, pulling that motherfuckin' today,
ignoring that all todays lead--

"on a rainy summer night"

The cat wants supper;
the mind and body, stimulation.
A moment appears-
How's that for stimulating?

Errands unfinished,
I lie abed drinking water
and leafing through books,
idle
in the pale pewter light.

(7.2 or 7.3.10)

"monument construction"

"monument construction"

wearing a flannel shirt on a summer night.
cells shrieking for nicotine, brain for diversion.
paying for the whole week with gas money.
here, hide behind this brown glass wall...
on second thought, don't.
how will friday even happen?

"any more water on those wedges
and the whole block's a writeoff."

Thus I have heard:

Tonight MC Chris, MC Lars, and YTCracker played here in H-Town. I really wanted to go, but I didn't, partially because I had nobody to go with (not because nobody was interested, but because there were conflicts of the scheduling variety), partially because I didn't want to spend a ton of money- I wouldn't be content just to pay the cover, I woulda wanted to buy shirts and shit- and partially because I wanted to spend the evening relaxin' on the couch.

It's been a good evening. I spent much of it poking around a UNIX shell (bash, yo) and learning stuff, which has been one of my summer goals. Still, I wonder what I missed at the show. I bet YTCracker played some shit I would've gone nuts for, and I kind of wish I'd been there.

I wasn't. It's a shame, and a fact. If I wasn't listening to Nerd Life right now I doubt I'd feel as wistful as I do, but such is the case.

But wait, the music's changed: Ramones, It's Alive, track one, "Rockaway Beach." I bought this album fifteen years ago in Venezuela, and lost it on the bus within a week of purchase. My mood's changed. The transitory nature of everything has become all the more apparent.

All right!

Today is June 16th.

Today is June 16th.

It's been a productive summer so far. Thinking of each day as a potential landmark helps. Sometimes I forget to do so, but for the most part, despite any small-scale lapses and failures, it's been a useful approach to making the most of this most climatologically awful of seasons.

As always, apologies for the brevity, but I've got writing to do.

Tomorrow is June 17th.

eternity's yield

Eternity, no!
Who'd want that, even if
we get to spend it luxuriating
in the most refined of pleasures?
If nothing ages, nothing
deepens. I have no interest
in day after day after day
(to the nth power times
the nth power)
of childish appreciation of
phenomena, if all we're granted
is the ability to converse
about,
exclusively,
how cool
something is.
Better oblivion,
better Sheol,
better a haphazard scheme of return to
the mortal world for some vaguely just cause,
than an infinite stretch of acceptance
of nothing but the universe's finest
half-assery, for half-assery
is eternity's yield.
Better death, birth, flaking away,
the worst of senescence,
than the static lie.
How cool.

the great connected solitude.

Here, in the great connected solitude, me and you and him and her but really me who isn't me at all or you at all or him at all or her at all, but just a bundle, singular and multitudinous, of contingency, a confluence of incalculable decisions, actions and the inactions that are still actions.

Keystrokes, blinks, wars, misunderstandings, snapped fingers, spilled drinks, cuds chewed, nebulae photographed, kisses planted, skin shed, all lead to this moment, make it what it is. What is it, when the lamp goes out, the new song starts, the beer is sipped, the memory is triggered, the next word is postponed and inadvertently switches the tracks the train of thought was hurtling down a second ago? What is it?

Got me. But here in the great connected solitude, it's hard to feel lonely for long when that voice coming through the headphones reminds you of the strobe-lit dance party always going on outside your front door, and you start to realize the formless foundation of it all; and it's just as hard not to feel terribly alone when you start to realize the formless foundation of it all and that voice coming through the headphones reminds you of the strobe-lit dance party always going on outside your front door.

My God, I love this moment so much I might cry.

You're studying what?

I could be studying for tomorrow's Chinese final, but I'm not, because I've reached a saturation point. I've got a couple hours tomorrow morning that I plan on using to study (read: "cram"), and I've put in a fair amount of time over the past week, so I should do pretty well.

Sometimes I have no idea why I'm studying Chinese. Or why I do anything I do, for that matter. Surprisingly, this doesn't bother me as much as you might think.

"Fuck it, here's that fiction."

Some new microfiction comin' soon, y'all. Guaranteed, seeing as how it's in my notebook waiting for transcription. I just gotta conquer this semester, and then I'll have a couple-three months of relatively free time to jaw about whatever comes to mind. Exciting topics may include Chinese radicals (the linguistic kind, not the political), ruminations on skate park life, brutal Houston summers, whatever. No promises.

Fuck it, here's that fiction. Penned 二零一零年四月二十五日。 No editing.

Another batshit heat day out here, they all observe while mopping sweat from brows & crevices. Eight, ten hours on the blacktop in uniform for all, with a changing of the guard so to speak every two hours, time for hot coffee served in metal cups, no sitting allowed and cigarettes must be smoked w/in four minutes or else. Then it's back to formation until- if not when, at least on a small scale, a day scale- one of the figures in the bleachers comes down with the manual and invokes some rule or another, rule more arcane than the last, no way for most of those soaking their starched collars to ever figure out the whole thing. But there is no whole thing; the game is made up on the fly, rules from the manual quoted & put into play for the sake of a game using the manual as a prop. Nobody sees over the cinderblock wall east of the field, doesn't know what else is part of the larger scheme, knows anything but fields & barracks and hot coffee that blisters the mouth daily.

Gravitational Constant: G = 6.67 x 10-8 cm-3 gm-1 sec-2 (AKA More Shit Taken For Granted Until It's Too Late)

INT- 4843 BRIDGEMONT LANE, SPRING, TEXAS, 77388. NIGHT.

The year is 1993, and a young DAVE SMITH sits five feet from the television, watching Headbangers Ball. His parents and brother are all sound asleep, as they usually are at this late hour. DAVE is entranced by the current video, which appears to be a song by a band of imposing, vampiric Eastern Europeans surrounded by hot women and freakish extras. The frontman of the band plays an upright bass like a guitar, rolling his eyes back in his head and flashing literal fangs. DAVE tapes this video and watches it numerous times, sharing it with his brother SCOTT on the old TV the family bought years earlier in Italy. Time changes DAVE's understanding of what he's seeing, but it doesn't change the meaning. He has discovered Type O Negative.

INT- SOMEONE'S FAMILY'S APARTMENT, CARACAS, VENEZUELA. NIGHT.

1996. DAVE SMITH sits in a tile-floored room with several friends, listening to Type O Negative's cover of "Paranoid," but only DIPTO CHAUDHURI is into it to the same degree. It seems like everyone these two dudes hold dear is leaving, and they revel in Type O's amazingly bleak take on Black Sabbath's classic, playing the song over and over.

INT- PETE'S CAR, HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS. DAY.

1999. DAVE SMITH and PETE SWULIUS sit in the latter's car, smoking cigarettes and absorbing the first minutes of Type O Negative's newest album, World Coming Down. "It's Type O," they say approvingly.


These are my three strongest memories involving Type O Negative. There are more, of course, but these are the ones that come to mind when I consider the news that Peter Steele, TON's frontman, died yesterday of heart failure. I remember when Yi-Lei Wu came back from a trip to the States with a copy of October Rust. I remember smoking a bidi with the Swulii outside Numbers after seeing Type O in '99. I remember buying Life Is Killing Me years after it was released, during a period when I realized I hadn't listened to TON in a while. I remember Fran Torres playing keyboards for my brother's band, Last Eve, and looking particularly like Josh Silver, hair- and playing-wise.

I remember a lot of things that have involved Type O Negative over the past seventeen years, but of course it takes Peter Steele's death to make me remember just how much I loved, and still love, this band. Maybe that's what death is for, aside from being something to fear and make hilariously tasteless jokes about. I don't know. Every time I think I'm getting a handle on things, shit like this happens and I realize the scope of my assumptions about life as I know. Christ.

Hail Type O Negative. Requiescat in pace Peter Steele. Those chicks in the "My Girlfriend's Girlfriend" and "Black No. 1" videos were hot. Thanks for everything.

Sinister.

Among the recent things I've done is a short-lived attempt at doing things with my right hand. Being fortunate to have been born in a time not insistent on having my natural tendency toward things sinister rather than dexter beaten or cajoled out of me, I took an opportunity last night to try to brush my teeth with my right hand. My teeth ended up clean, sure, but it was not an easy task. My brain knew what to do, and my hand valiantly followed orders, but in a manner most awkward and tedious. A task that would've normally taken two minutes took more like six. Afterward, I tried writing English words and Chinese characters right-handed, which was an even clumsier undertaking. Ambidexterity might be achieved some day (or month, or year), but I think I'll postpone attempts until something tragic happens to my left hand... in which case I won't be so much ambidextrous as unidextrous, albeit with my new dominant hand.

It's Tuesday night, but it feels like Thursday, because this week's academic hurdle came, and was overcome, earlier in the week than usual. I've taken to staying up until well past midnight on Thursdays, writing and generally soaking up the witching-hour atmosphere, but tonight I can't afford to do so. Duties call, so I'm going to torch one more gasper and call it a night. I won't even read any of Anathem before turning out the light.

In lieu of delving further into my well-over-a-decade-old obsession with late nights enjoyed in quiet domestic environs- a situation in the midst of which I again find myself- I instead urge you to listen to the Mount Fuji Doomjazz Corporation's Succubus. Accompanied, perhaps, by tobacco and alcohol, and silent rumination on subjects best left undiscussed.

Good night.

Itinerary.

48 hours from now I'll be in San Diego, California, enjoying the first leg of a trip up and down the Golden State (or, as Erik Davis would put it, the Visionary State) with my girlfriend.

Twelve and a half hours from now I have a Chinese midterm.

Right now I'm not studying. Right now I'm enjoying some DCPD Bangerz, sipping tequila with Peychaud's bitters, Controy, and water, and daydreaming about skateparks and other assorted things.

I'll try to write from Cali-forn-eye-ay. Failing that, I'll drop whatever verbiage I concoct out west here when I get back to H-Town. (I'll also try not to use ridiculous nomenclature, though that's a dodgy proposition.)

Zaijian, pengyou.

"this is my curb"

"this is my curb"



"Skate curbs, smoke cigarettes."
...say hi to groms, moms, dads,
ice cream man.

That ain't wax,
that's aluminum. Months and months of Trackers and Indies
laid down on these curbs, mere yards from 35,000 square feet
of high-grade Grindline concrete.
It's easier out here, if you don't count pedestrians
and the occasional Parks and Recreation vehicle
rumbling through.
Stoge sessions sometimes, bitching about work
or just the rough concrete,
but mostly just Sk8-His and a set of 160somethings:
remember to lean back
and soon you'll be showing axle and
blowing the fuck out of some orange Khiros.

"Drink coffee, skate curbs."
snapshot: coffee grind
(backside 50/50, joe in hand).

Book it: only way to go. Remember to lean back
or you'll never enter the kingdom,
'cause bails don't count.
"how's it going, man?"
It's going, man.
It's
going. Let me see if I can nail this
feeble,
dig this fenceposted sunset and crank up the Rockboxed
metal before I have to go back in
and do what I'm gettin' paid to do.

Be back in an hour
for ten minutes of Tom Knox action. This
is my curb.

interstitial pome, number whatever

That was, in its way,
accidental:
the Tao of the house
seeing fit
that the rubber bat
stays aloft.

2.10.10

Apexin', dude

I remember it like it's tomorrow. Chris puts down his pen, looks up from the notebook full of BBS numbers and game maps he keeps next to his computer, and blinks. He takes a long swig of Coke, glances at the pack of cigarettes his dad left behind when he called it quits for the night, and almost reaches for one but doesn't, knowing he's already got an addictive personality (and besides, his dad will notice any missing smokes; he counts them carefully since he's trying to quit). Takes another swig of Coke.

"It's messed up," he says, "but this is what people are going to put on a pedestal. It doesn't matter how fast their machines get, what their baud rates are, or even if they've got computers that fit in their pockets. They'll get nostalgic about playing computer games in basements with wood paneling. Shitty graphics will be awesome. Nobodies will be heroes."

Before he sits back in his chair he plucks a Marlboro from the pack on the desk and lights it. "This is it," he grins behind the cigarette. "Apexin', dude."

"this is not the heart sutra speaking"

There will be no return to form.
There was never any form
to begin with. This is not the Heart
Sutra speaking; this emptiness is the
one we know, the one we fear, the
shape and texture we think we
associate with the darkest of nights.
Emptiness cultivated by trying
to hold it at bay. We'll return,
there's no doubt of that; it's just
a question of what we bring
back, or what we leave behind.
When we've returned, thinking
the sun has banished whatever
we just did, it won't be to form.

I've been much more silent than I intended. It's been a busy month; I feel like the 3.5" disk that runs my brain's OS has been swapped with a different one containing an operating system that handles school and work programs and very little else. Ugh.

A little somethin' for 2010.

LADIES & GENTLEMEN, the brain tonight isn't moving in the unexpected directions you may have expected given the circumstances, but rest assured there are still sirens screaming down West Alabama, holes in the elbow of someone else's sweater, too many minutes spent surfing (oh, OUTDATED!) increasingly few websites, bursts of laughter and temperatures that make putting beer, NA variety, in the fridge an unnecessary move, movement all done in cars at this hour and degree Fahrenheit, 'cept for the hipsters earlier bookin' it westward (swig) on their bikes; all the accoutrements and claptrap but as of yet none of the loneliness that the bottle and House of Pies sing to (why drink? why eat? Food's in the fridge, hombre) or sang to, so much seems past tense, definitely past and still sometimes tense, shoulder muscle tense, tense you don't find in Chinese, quite a blessing for the student of 中文 if you don't mind the cold fingers & copybook rote practice of 汉字, not me, that shit is great- hope the cat isn't too lonely, bet she's fine, we've got an understanding, 'cause sometimes, solitaire nights and that shoulder all tight again, you just have to be home, where the office is a mess and Elvira's watching you do zazen, all outta page and there goes the 78, later, folks, but no more than one or two-

Zero hour minus 13.

I've got my Chinese 1501 final tomorrow. Once I'm done, I hope to use my winter break (from school, not work, naturally) productively, in a writerly sense. We shall see.

Let's just hope I don't forget a semester's worth of Chinese in three weeks and ruin my current academic respectability come springtime.

"Barrows"

Barrows

We opened the tombs of
our ancestors, kings and heroes all,
only to find them empty,
quiet homes of dust and memory.
Our sacred myths founded on vacant architecture
and lies our great-grandfathers told
to keep the nighttime silence at bay.

No splendid treasure-hoards,
no bones to brighten the microscope's
eye, no spells to
ward off the other side's ravenous denizens,
only the tombs, hillside after hillside,
hewn stone mouths speaking
for nobody, nothing but the earth.

Thoughts on output.

I've been more prolific, in some ways, this past year than I have in a long while. One of my biggest problems with defining prolificity is the issue of length: have I written anything longer than a few hundred words, much less a proper short story or, even better, a novel? Not really. I've merely been amassing vignettes, poems, and fragments of ideas that if properly fleshed out could be seed material for longer works. I've also written a few episodes of the new iteration of Unheimlich, which if I haven't mentioned was revived by Andy Link in the form of a next-generation Xbox Live game. It's still in the daydreaming and scripting phase, but if it never gets past that, it's a better fate than its ancestor, Unheimlich the novel, faced.

So, despite being used to writing long-form works ("used to" being an increasingly inappropriate phrase, given my overall literary silence for some time), I'm faced with a plethora of short pieces that in the old days wouldn't amount to shit, but these days do. The sheer amount of small things I've cranked out lately- I've filled all but a few pages of a pocket notebook in seven months, whereas in the past it would've taken considerably longer to do so, and there are probably plenty of scribbles and vague textfiles floating around my house and hard drive- serves as the main metric by which I consider myself "prolific." There's something else to take into account, though, and that's whether producing a great deal of work counts for anything if said work isn't being pushed into publication.

I'm torn. Part of me, the much younger, militantly authorial, part, says "if you're not publishing, or trying to publish, then you're a dilettante," whereas another part of me- which the younger part understood, even back then, though it was hard to come to terms with- says "You're writing. That's all you've ever wanted. Stop beating yourself up about whether anyone reads it, much less pays you for it, and just write."

I tend to think the latter approach, which has always been the real reason for writing but is hard to stomach when you really want to make a career of writing, has the upper hand in my current inner debate about whether I'm writing a lot. I'm definitely enjoying writing for the hell of it, even if it I'm still frustrated that I can't seem to cough up anything longer than a page or two. I suppose that kind of dilemma's an intrinsic part of writing- not that it makes it any easier when you're up late at night wondering where all your ideas have gone and whether or not people will ever read something of yours that isn't maudlin, self-indulgent moaning.

Whatever. Fuck it. I'm happy with how much I'm writing, and I can see certain changes (for the better, I think) in how I write. I'm even posting more regularly to this web log, which I've missed dearly. Who cares if I'm not submitting work left and right or writing another novel?

Good enough. Good. Enough.

Happy Bodhi Day.

-DAS 12.8.09

"Field Recordings"

The sound of two-inch tape hisses and rustles in the weeds. Someone's forgotten they were supposed to be making field recordings, left their gear behind. That was 1971; since then kids have been discovering the machine and replaying the sounds the tape never captured. They don't know how it works- the batteries are corroded slugs- and they don't care. They press play, rewind, play again, fast forward, rewind, judging the permutations of blank soundscape. Nobody thinks to take the machine home, clean it up. It's been in the same empty lot forever, as much of a secret landmark as the curb behind the convenience store, the crucifix nailed upside down to that one tree in the woods. Silence, waiting for encroachment from a child's aeon ago.

(12.3.09- revisions 12.7.09)

D.A.'s Favorite Five Records of 2009

D.A.'s Favorite* Five Records** of 2009

It's close enough to the end of the year for me to make some assessments of the albums I acquired in 二零零九年, or as the Chinese say, deuce double ought nine. It's been a tough year for music, I think, mostly from a personal standpoint: I spent a quarter of the year unemployed and the rest of it saving as much money as I could to pay UH's insane tuition, so I lacked the usual discretionary record-buying funds my income prior to 11/08 allowed.

Not buying records on a near-weekly basis has left me out of the loop. It used to be that I knew what had come out in the recent past and what was coming out in the immediate future, so I could pass more informed judgments about the state of music (music that might interest me, that is) for any given year than I can at the moment. For example, a year or two ago the appearance of a new Nile record would not have caught me completely by surprise, and I would've been aware that Portal would be unleashing another disc of extraplanar death metal, but not this year. It's not just poverty that keeps me from being a record nerd, of course. Between work and school I have a lot less free time than I used to, and I turned 30 three months ago, which officially makes me old, befuddled, and out of touch with the hip kids, so I'm not pulling from as extensive a list as I normally would.

Now that the excuses and rationalizations are out of the way, here are some records I really dug this year. Even if your taste in music differs from mine (which it inevitably does; don't worry, I won't mock you too much), these are albums I'd recommend to anyone. Whether or not you'll like them is, of course, a decision for you alone to make; I hope you take the time to check them out and make that decision.


Current 93- Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain

Matt, my brother from another mother with the same last name, turned me on to Current 93 about ten years ago. I won't try to describe, much less explain, this band (which is one dude, David Tibet, and a revolving handful of comrades) here, other than to say that they make folk music if folk music were written by an English prophet/artist even more obscure than William Blake who was into children's rhymes and prog rock. Or some such shit; the point is that C93 is unique, and "Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain" is unique among their discography, mainly because it's a pretty heavy, electric guitar-oriented record. Part of me doesn't want to talk too much about it in the hopes that my silence intrigues you enough to hear it for yoursel-and because silence is sacred- but another part of me could spend a solid hour talking, and maybe two hours writing, about this album. "Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain" is probably the best record of the year in my book.

N.B. If it's worth anything, I bought this on CD and on vinyl. Side 4 of the double LP has all the album's lyrics put to a piece of music not included among the normal tracks, and it works really, really well. I also got hold of a copy of "Monohallucinatory Mountain," which is a mono mix of "Aleph at...", through questionable channels (read: downloading). I'm not an audiophile, but I can say the difference between the regular and mono mixes is noticeable, and changes the atmosphere of the album in a way worth hearing. Yes, I have this album in three different formats, and it's completely worth it.


Deströyer 666- Defiance

Long story short: this is a band I blew off for far too long because I didn't care for their name. In late '03 or early '04 I got my shit together and bought "Cold Steel For An Iron Age", their latest record at the time. They promptly became, and remain, one of my favorite metal bands, and they exemplify the widely recognized excellence and brutality of Australian heavy metal. "Defiance" is their first full-length in six years, and while it may initially not impress fans in the way their older work does, after a few spins there's no doubt that this is quality stuff, and by no means a slack effort. As an added bonus, it contains one of the best lyrics I've ever heard: "have the gods not failed enough that we must conjure more?". Take that, theists.

Mastodon- Crack the Skye

I almost didn't include this. I listened to "Crack the Skye" about a thousand times in the month after it came out, and I saw Mastodon play the entire album live three weeks ago, so I'm almost burned out. Luckily, I already wrote a review of it, which you can find here at this very web log. 'Nuff said.


Wolves in the Throne Room- Black Cascade

Definitely harder to get into than their last full-length, "Two Hunters," and I'm still not sure why. At some point I thought I'd figured it out, but I've forgotten what my theory was. No matter; this is yet another stellar release from one of the newest crop of American black metal bands. All of their albums are near-masterpieces, and their sound and ideology, both of which have been criticized for numerous reasons but to little lasting effect, are a logical extension of and welcome addition to the black metal scene. Perhaps it's their roots in Washington State, and/or their Thoreau-like appreciation of nature, but Wolves in the Throne Room strike me as an alternate universe Beat black metal outfit. I don't know if the band would appreciate that or not, but I don't care: as I see it, if Jack Kerouac grew up on Romantic poetry and heavy metal tales of pagan forests, he may well have tried (and knowing Kerouac, likely failed) to start a band like this. Listen to "Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog," especially the last two and a half minutes, and maybe you'll see what I mean.


YTCracker- Chrono Nurga vol. 1

"High five for the Cat5, and a fat drive, and a quarter of weed."

That pretty much sums up YTCracker's attitude on this album. If you aren't familiar with nerdcore hip-hop, of which YTCracker is a progenitor, imagine hip-hop with geeky subject matter: in this dude's case, spamming, Nintendo games, programming, defunct sodas, and nerd life in general. "Chrono Nurga vol. 1" consists of raps laid down over beats lifted from the old RPG Chrono Trigger, which I'm ashamed to admit I have yet to play despite hearing nothing but good about the game. You'd think such a project would have little more than novelty value, but you'd be wrong. (Such an argument could be made for nerdcore as a whole, but again, you'd be wrong.) Peppered throughout the album's eight tracks are lines that strike a chord, and not only because part of me is somehow still surprised by poignancy in music like this. "Chrono Nurga vol. 1" doesn't have the range of "Nerd Life" or even "Nerdrap Entertainment System," but it's a solid album in its own right, lyrically and musically. YTCracker, despite all his bragadoccio, most certainly knows what it's like to be a nerd. Be prepared for obtuse references, crudeness, and the us-versus-you attitude that so many of us who've always felt at odds with our less intelligent but somehow socially superior fellows have adopted from time to time. Don't sweat it if you don't catch some of the references, because I didn't either. What matters is that a dude ganked some old Playstation beats, threw this thing together in a day, and did it with enough heart and wit to beat out albums that might otherwise have made this list.

"Show that nerd life off, never hide it."



* In no particular order.
**Not just records, but CDs, tapes, mp3s, whatever.

(as of yet) untitled poem + a recommendation.

The song of harlots and saints
resounds in chambers without walls
or walls of bone, smooth curvature of bone.
The stars hide behind light and a hundred
wheels spin.
Children grit their teeth, prepare to fall,
as parents demand more. Young masks
tear at the edges when ten thousand
tomorrows arrive today.
But today
there is no today, only now,
the moment of noise and lines.

11.11.09
----

YTCracker's dropped a new one, chrono nurga vol. 1. Dig it. Nerd life.

Unsummary.

Iced tea and a cigarette. Geocities comes to an end, and with it the internet as so many of us knew it. The ego as time bomb. New YT Cracker release awaiting extraction from a .zip file. A day of rain. That cold-weather smell, not because it's that cold but because it's just cool enough for an extra layer. Abyssal power struggles. Locks in need of powdered graphite. Too many appliances. Pumpkins awaiting faces. Move along.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!

(tl;dr version: nice weather and skateboarding rule)

It's been a weird year for Houston, weather-wise. June was brutally hot. July was, to nobody's surprise, also hot. August was a little more mellow, but only in comparison to what it usually is. September sucked: the temperatures didn't seem to drop, and the humidity was awful. October, when most of us would agree that H-Town starts catching up with the seasonal rotation thing, has been a little more forgiving, though it's still been humid as shit. Today, however, Mother Nature has dropped a boon on my fair city in the form of mid-70s temperatures, clear skies, and steady breezes. This, my friends, is the way things should be. Like I told a buddy at the skatepark earlier today, I understand why people are willing to shell out the fat cash to live in SoCal, where days like this are routine.

Even better, it's my Saturday. I had a rad green smoothie for breakfast, then went to the skatepark to make the most of the weather and drop off some Tracker Fastracks for a buddy looking to set up a cruiser. I saw, for the first time in months, one of the guys who was a stalwart of the 8 AM scene when Jamail still opened that early and when I didn't work there. Threw down some increasingly solid feeble grinds on the curbs outside the park, and started plotting my conquest of a particular quarterpipe via backside rock n' rolls. Stopped at Half Price Books and walked out with a couple promising books, one of which is by Stephen Batchelor, who I can't recommend enough if you want a clear, meaningful, and modern approach to Buddhism. Came home, drank some Koenig Ludwig weissbier- 'cause it's that kind of day, dudes- and jammed some MC Frontalot and 3 Inches of Blood. Later, I'll probably go lay waste to some neighborhood curbs and/or do some/all of the following: take a nap, read, visit my brother, smoke cigarettes, go back to the skatepark, and maybe some things I haven't even thought about yet. Days like this are why we're put on earth.

Shout-outs to Aaron Estrada, War Master, Santa Monica Airlines, D, Daniel, Richard, tahini, cheap lighters, and West Alabama Street.


Impervious to fire, impervious to steel,
D.A.S.

Some words.

"Every waking moment is a footstep deeper into a labyrinth where the meaninglessness of life pursues us like a patient minotaur." -Lina Strade

Notes on the transportive function of music

(As always, the text below is not to be taken as fully fleshed out, or likely to be completed.)

Some pieces of music- riffs, melodies, whole songs- perform one of music's most potent functions, which for lack of better words I'll term the transportive function. This term can be broken down into specific types of transport, since not all music serves the same purpose, but I'm going to focus on temporal transport, i.e., the removal of the listener from the present into the past or future. Further subclassification is possible: there are riffs and songs to remind one of their actual past, free of whitewashing or embellishment; music that filters the listener's past through the lens of nostalgia; music that evokes a mythological past that never happened at all; or, looking forward, music that launches the listener to a future that may never be, or provides a more earthbound sense of the possibilities down the road. I'm not going to concern myself with examining each of these responses to music- too exhausting- but stick to musing on the general transportive function.

The right piece of music can cause the listener can enter into a state of mind similar to, perhaps almost identical to, one they've been in before. There are a number of variables that go into determining whether a given song or riff will do the trick, all of them personal and therefore outside the scope of this piece; besides, anyone who's serious about music is usually aware of why certain songs affect them the way they do. Anyway, the music producing this result need not have been heard previously; indeed, one of the most fascinating things about the transportive function is that it doesn't require familiarity, instead working as a sort of instantaneous, hands-free time machine. I can't say for sure if the first time one hears a piece of music is the most powerful in terms of the transportive function, but I lean toward a negative answer, based on personal experience and because engrossing oneself in a piece of music allows a listener to hear more deeply, which can make the transportive function either more effective or cause it to function differently. It should also be noted that specificity, in regard to precisely when in time a piece of music moves the listener, can be a non-issue. I'd hazard to guess that most people's experiences with the transportive function can be described more along the lines of "this takes me back to the fall of '04" or "that song is, like, what I imagine music will be like twenty years from now" than "January 12th, 1989, in my brother's room." Whether the music takes one to a vaguely or clearly-defined time isn't that important, although that could be argued.

One thing I'm unsure of, probably because it just occurred to me and I'm too impatient to stop and think about it, is whether the transportive function is completely involuntary or not. I don't think it is, because one can react to a song one way for X amount of time only to react differently later- e.g., one associates a song with a good (or bad) time in their life, only to reevaluate their feelings later and find that they loathe/love the song now. That said, people don't often actively change their response to music, for whatever reasons or lack thereof, and I suspect the transportive function has something to do with this. People like associating a song with a specific time and/or place, whether or not thinking about why that is would, in the long run, allow them to get more from the music. I'm as guilty of this as the next guy, and I'm not blaming anyone for anything.

That's all I've got for the time being. If I think of anything else to add, I'll try to remember to do so, but I'm already planning my next entry. It should be up within the week, if all goes well.

Zaijian!

-DAS

P.S. The song that got me thinking about the transportive function in the first place, and that has been listened to numerous times since I started writing this entry, is "Ghosts of Grace" by Nachtmystium. Where does it take me? I'm still trying to nail that down.

Run ragged.

Things I've done in the past couple weeks: started my new job at the skatepark, moved closer to finishing this semester's Chinese class, and absorbed a great amount of new music. What I haven't done: meditate. For the past eight or nine months I've been pretty strict about getting in 30 minutes to an hour a day on the ol' meditation cushion. It's been a useful habit, and when I miss more than the occasional session I notice a distinct difference in the way I perceive and react to things. It sucks.

My failure in the past week to meditate each day has been taking a toll on me. I don't think of myself as being particularly susceptible to stress, but just because I believe (or don't believe) something doesn't make it true; the confluence of recent events seems to be wearing me out, moreso mentally than physically- though that's a factor too, given that I'm standing around in the heat all day for a living now. On top of my non-diminishing to-do list, I've been listening to lots of new music, much of which is intricate, heavily textured, raw, and/or laden with textual and philosophical meaning. It's a lot to digest, and I've only begun cramming my mouth full and trying to chew. Alongside that comes a fair amount of reading about said music, via metal 'zines like Oaken Throne and Convivial Hermit, which expands the range of my thinking about what I've been hearing. Summa summarum, I've been overloading my mind and underutilizing the decompression tool of meditation, and it's no good. Interesting, maybe, but mostly exhausting.

This isn't a complaint, by the way, but rather an analysis. I'm aware of what's wrong and how to alleviate it, something I don't know that I could have done even a few years ago.

Good night.

a quick note

Something I'll try to expand upon later:

One of the reasons I love heavy metal is that it is a channel for the expression of ideas and sentiments that are usually at odds with those professed by the majority of people. Not boring political issues, but metaphysical and philosophical concepts. It's good that metal is there to provide a framework for understanding my periodic nihilism and distaste for mankind, just as I'm glad that metal has provided such an extensive network of resources for delving into the esoteric, heretical, and left-handed.

The Perils of Astral Projection in Late Imperial Russia

All right, here's some heavy metal musings at long last. Today's topic: Mastodon's latest record, Crack the Skye, which is a concept album of sorts. I'm not going to go too deeply into the details of the concept part, as such information is readily available online. Better yet, you could listen to the record and read the liner notes. The latter course of action is unquestionably the superior one, because as cool as it is to read that Crack the Skye deals with the accidental adventures of a paraplegic astral traveler who ends up in Rasputin's body just before Rasputin is offed by Yusupov and company, among other things, it's far more rewarding to absorb the songs and their lyrics as the band intended. Mastodon's graphic design is, as always, top notch, so the liner notes are an aesthetic treat unto themselves.

Blood Mountain, Mastodon's last record, didn't really do it for me, or at least I don't remember it doing much for me. It had its moments, but I seem to recall a lot of stuff that didn't strike my eardrums the right way. When I heard about Crack the Skye I decided to listen to Blood Mountain again to see what I thought of it a couple years later. To my dismay, I found the CD case but not the CD, so I said "fuck it" and went ahead and bought Crack the Skye. If my fears that the new album would be too much like the last came true, it wouldn't be the first time I was burned by giving a band another shot. (Note that Leviathan, the album prior to Blood Mountain, was fantastic, and after digging the hell out of it, I went back to my copy of Remission, which I hadn't cared for, and found that it was more to my liking the second time around.)

Crack the Skye marks the second time I've been pleasantly surprised- nay, fucking floored- by this band, and establishes, in my mind at least, a Star Trek-like one-good-one-bad pattern. The musicianship is incredible; it's expansive and intriguing without lapsing into wankery. It's got a great texture to it, which the production does an excellent job of emphasizing. It's heavy without being conventionally so, and no, that's not code for "downtuned," "lots of blast beats," or "merely heavier than what you'd hear on the radio." (It is the latter, but really, what isn't unless you're listening to KTRU?) Importantly, the heaviness is tempered by- or provides gravitational force to- a kind of ethereality that pervades the record, which is in keeping with its lyrical concept. Everything flows, too. While each song is very good on its own merits, they all work together exceptionally well to give form to that increasingly rare specimen, the album. Kudos for Mastodon for structuring things so well and promoting repeated, extended listening sessions; then again, if they hadn't done so, the record wouldn't work too well as a concept album.

One of the things that turned me off of Blood Mountain was the vocal work. It sounded like Mastodon, but not really. Crack the Skye continues in the same vocal direction, but this time the band has figured out what I imagine they were aiming for on their last release. There's a lot less harsh throatwork here than there was in the past, but it couldn't be otherwise; this is Mastodon's tribute to prog rock, and while there's certainly room for death metal vocals in such an approach (viz. Opeth), the material here requires the mostly clean melodicism found in the vocals. Some vocal effects are used, but they don't come out of nowhere or fail to make sense, keeping with the overall flow mentioned above.

When I first conceived of this little essay, I intended to spend half of it venting my spleen about the absurdity of autocracy, particularly in the form of czarism and even more specifically as personified by Nicholas II. I was also going to wax venomous about the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia's decision in 1981 to canonize the Romanovs as martyrs. I shit you not. These are the kind of mental tangents listening to Crack the Skye inspired. I doubt anyone else would end up thinking along those lines, but I'd say it's a testament to the album's power that it not only creates a fascinating universe of its own, but that said universe seeps out into the minds of those who encounter it by listening to the record. Even if one sets the lyrical content aside, there are all kinds of riffs and melodies here that will fasten themselves to your skull like tentacles. Just as further expeditions into the depths of Leviathan yielded new insights, spinning Crack the Skye several times will provide not only hours of entertainment, but a greater understanding of, among other things, the nature of heaviness and progressiveness- not to mention the precautions that should be taken when leaving one's body for the astral plane.

-DAS, 4.16.09

Coming soon!

Hopefully within the next week- probably the next few days- I'll be writing about some records I've been diggin' as of late, and the satellite ideas I have about them.

The records:

Mastodon- Crack the Skye
Darkthrone- Dark Thrones and Black Flags
Wolves in the Throne Room- Two Hunters

Check 'em out for yourself in the meantime.

The perils of (non)alcohol.

Since I quit drinking last August I've taken to drinking non-alcoholic beer. I don't drink as much of it as I did real beer, but it's a decent analog- or so I thought. Last night I drank about four bottles of O'Doul's; several hours later, I woke up with nasty gut pains, which were as surprising as they were unpleasant since I rarely have gastrointestinal trouble. The pain continued through the night and into the next morning, finally easing up, for the most part, late this morning. By mid-afternoon, I felt more or less normal, though I was still clueless as to what caused the episode.

Tonight I had another couple NA beers, and within an hour I had both a slightly upset stomach and a sudden realization. Maybe it's just O'Doul's, but non-alcoholic beer looks like it ain't gonna sit well with me if I want to drink more than a couple over the course of an evening.

I just had another realization: I've hit a new low, whining about non-alcoholic beer. Jesus.

tonight.

Wearing yesterday's (or day before's) socks, drinking from reused water battle sans cap, wallet empty, Tommy Guerrero and YT Cracker jams on the hard drive, hundreds of old skateboarding ads scrolling by. Floodlights and pretty smooth concrete over at Target sound like fun, but there's nobody to skate with now. Quitting cigarettes is harder than breaking up with girls. Coffee- sure, but man it's gonna fuck with the dreams.

I never stay up late anymore. I hated doing it when circumstances forced me to, but now I miss it. Huh.

Christ almighty!

It's been almost a year since I posted here. I forgot my password, had mail server problems getting it back when I realized (months after the fact) that I'd forgotten it, made an aborted attempt at another blog, lost my job (not because of the blog problems)... yeah, here we are again.

Let's see what happens.

Carving the middle path

Here are your options. Choose at least one.

a) Meditate and destroy
b) Skate and destroy

Which will it be?

How about both?

Yeah, that sounds good.

It's been a good week. It pays to try and be mindful.

This is why I hate talking to you when...

The older I get, the less I have to believe in. I remember a time when things didn't sound like bullshit or totally devoid of value. I love life, but it doesn't mean shit, as much as I want it to; I want to be a good little existentialist, but I fail at it because I can't find or create the personal meaning that makes life worth living. I'm running on fear, laziness, and what passes for hope.

"Almost always the idea before the thing itself- in art, love, and all of life." -Rudi Tannemann

lectric chile (go)at (skate)

Tommy Guerrero, former Bones Brigade skater turned musician, said in an interview I read a few weeks ago that his music isn't exactly suited for skating, except for the walk back up a hill you just bombed. I can't say for sure, since I don't listen to music when I skate, as much as I'd like to (aural cues, such as the sound of approaching cars, are handy when you're cruising the neighborhood and don't feel like getting run over, and headphones tend to diminish said cues). However, for late nights like this, and contemplative mornings, it's a perfect soundtrack. I imagine it'd be good for laid-back cruising sessions, too. Whatever the case, the guy's music is killer, and makes me want to buy a Walkman and some headphones so I can jam it the next time I get to skate in the hour before sunset.

If you couldn't tell, I think about skating a lot these days.

Weighing In - II

Sometimes I sleep in the master closet, stretched out between rows of shoes, a winter coat added to my usual pile of blankets. The air does not move, and there is an odor of cedar that seems to grow stronger the longer I remain. The closet is similar to what I would want in a tomb, and is therefore a fine place to meditate on death. My closet renders death a warm, familiar, pleasantly scented thing.

-Marcus Gill, New York, NY, 2000


Writing cannot alert a reader to the purposelessness of life intending to give the reader hope. Once the world's mask has been removed, exposing the void where a face should be (or where we believe one should be), it cannot be put back on. Writing can remove that mask, and on rare occasions replace it with a new, temporary one, but that is all. Words cannot create meaning when meaning does not exist.

-Patricia Sklar, Marblehead, MA, 1952

I'd buy booze from this dude.

http://slanginliquorinthehood.blogspot.com/

Good stuff.

At least...

I'm drinking plenty of coffee these days.

Apropos of nothing, I know, but I was compelled to mention it.

Weighing In - I

It is imperative that unpleasant activities and environments be mitigated as much as possible, internal unpleasantness not necessarily excluded. However, the means of lessening the world's unpleasantness is one that should not be taken up without careful contemplation. I might suggest a method or two, but refrain from doing so, knowing that most who would apply such methods have no desire to be taken for miscreants of the highest order.

-Hernán Ochoa Dagú, Mérida, Yucatán, 1937


"Life's work" is bullshit. Everyone dies long before they've done anywhere near what they thought or hoped they'd do. Believing there's a master plan or some list of achievements laid out for each of us is stupid, and acting on that belief is even more stupid. It sets us up for disappointment and doesn't let us enjoy what's actually here in front of us. That kind of thinking takes away all the worth of leaving things unfinished, or never started at all. Failure becomes a mortal sin (and you can fucking guarantee people who believe in "God's plan" or their "life's work" believe in sin). What a joke! Why miss out on the beauty of failure or incompleteness or not doing something because we think our lives have some grand scheme? It's delusional, total self-delusion. God fucking forbid we admit we don't amount to much of anything, as far as our neighbors and the universe are concerned.

-Star Miller, Helena, MT 1988

escape

I'm drunk, just so you know. Doesn't mean any of the following is untrue (or sensible). Not that much will follow.

-Life, generally speaking, almost never excites me these days.
-I wish I'd been more of a miscreant in high school.
-She. Oh, she!
-Neck hurts.
-Bully soundtrack: missing only one crucial song.
-Marbles/ball bearings: check inventory.
-I miss Floyd boy.
-"Con su gusano.: Down the hatrch.
-I wanna move to Bullworth Vale.

Like I said, drunk. Thanks to every poor soul that's ever come on you.

Behold the bastard's blade!

After spending ten or fifteen minutes looking for parking on choked side streets, I forced myself through the packed downstairs bar at Rudyard's, got my hand stamped, and went upstairs, where the population was even denser, the temperature at least ten degrees higher, the humidity almost 100%, and the wait for a beer anywhere between five and ten minutes. Everything took forever, except breaking out into a sweat. I'd be sweating for the next two and a half hours- not some weakling forehead sheen, but the kind of sweat that saturates your clothes and seems to replace your skin.

Why did I do this? Because The Sword was playing, and since it was at Rudyard's, it was one of those rare occasions I could actually see a show after work- a show I was pretty excited about in the first place. I liked them when I saw them in 2006, their new album is solid, and this video is a stroke of brilliance. Last night they put on a good show, played what I wanted to hear, gave me reason to headbang like a fool, and sold me a classy t-shirt.

Worth the sweat and hassle, no question about it. Joe Bob says check it out.

Proud alumnus.

I've been playing Grand Theft Auto IV lately. Great game, across the board. My buddy Andy sent me the following link to this article which discusses why the GTA series has been so groundbreaking, among other things. I recommend reading it if you're a GTA fan and/or interested in the narratology of video games in general. It's also pretty damned funny.

As great as GTA is, however, my favorite Rockstar Games product has to be Bully. I'm playing it again, this time for the Xbox 360, and loving every minute of it. I got the soundtrack in the mail a couple days ago, and have spent more than a little spare time trying to track down something resembling a Bullworth Academy t-shirt. My Halloween costume this year will, if all goes well, involve someone sewing a Bullworth Academy crest onto a sweater for me (said sweater will then become a regular article of cold-weather clothing). The 360 version hasn't bugged out on me more than once, to my surprise, and while it's (thus far) not substantially different than its older PS2 ancestor, it's been very much worth buying again for the improved graphics and, well, just to play again. I'd much rather ride my bike or skate around Bullworth, tossing eggs at assholes and putting firecrackers in toilets, than committing vehicular manslaughter in San Andreas or Liberty City... but not always. There's no real comparison between the two games, in my opinion, as the tone of each is sufficiently unlike the other to nullify any "Bully=GTA with training wheels" comments. (Yeah, I know Bullworth Academy shows up tangentially in GTA IV, but I reckon you get my point.)

So yeah, two good games, two engrossing premises, two different overall moods, and yours truly gravitates towards the, ahem, "juvenile" one- unabashedly. Make of it what you will.

See you on campus, folks.

-DAS
Bullworth '06

The brown sound.

Been digging the hell out of Brant Bjork's newest offering, Punk Rock Guilt. Recorded in '05 but only released this month, it's another album of his where he plays all the instruments, and features some songs that have shown up on other albums in different forms. It's not rehash, though; the songs maintain enough similarity to previous versions to be recognizable, but are restructured in such a way as to be fresh and vital. Really good stuff, and not a bad introduction to the man's solo work if you haven't had the good fortune to hear him before.

I'd write more, not just about Brant Bjork, but I've gotta get to bed at something resembling a reasonable hour so I can take my madre to the airport tomorrow.

Later.

A stroll down Danny the Street

My parents are celebrating their 33rd wedding anniversary this weekend, so I'll be up in Jasper Saturday and most of Sunday, along with my brother, Tracey, kt and Altoid. I doubt there'll be anywhere to skate other than the driveway, but if space permits I'll probably bring my board with me.


I'm close to finishing the final volume of Grant Morrison's Doom Patrol run. Like a lot of comics, I bought the first volume, liked it, and then bought all the other volumes within a relatively short span of time, which works out fine if the whole run is available but sucks when you have to wait months for the last volume to come out. This volume, Planet Love, feels like an epilogue for some reason, despite containing some rather massive developments on par with events from prior volumes. I should probably read the whole lot again, one right after another, and then comment... hey, maybe that could be an actual project of sorts. I'd probably enjoy doing something similar with Welcome to the NHK, another series that hasn't been released in its trade-paperback entirety yet, much to my vexation.


I suspect that regularly feeling that things will return to normal, or fall into place, or make sense (I can't decide which, if any, of these, is the right way to describe it) real soon now is not a good sign. It reeks of a misguided approach to the here and now, which bothers me. Gotta work on that, somehow.



Enjoy these Simon Bisley Doom Patrol covers while I help myself to a cigarette. G'night, y'all.

97a

I started skating again last November. I'm not any good, and I don't practice nearly enough, but I am going to visit the new skatepark opening up in town on June 1, armed with my Powell-Peralta Ripper reissue and rolling on (reissue) Rat Bones. I've never skated bowls, pools, vert, ditches, or anything other than streets, so it'll be a trip going there and watching kids less than half my age tear shit up. Luckily for me, I'm not too concerned about impressing anyone; I'm more or less content cruising and enjoying myself.

I do wish I had folks to skate with, though, which is why I joined the Old Man Army, a group of older skaters who are in for the fun. With any luck I'll get to know some folks well enough to start skating with them; with even more luck, they'll either be way better than me and can impart wisdom and skills, or they're just as bad as I am and we can look foolish en masse. Either way, good times will be had.

Never here

I finally bough a copy of The Radio One Sessions Elastica did. A few of you may know of my long-standing love of Elastica, which started when I saw the video for "Connection" on MTV in Venezuela, so the fact that I waited this long to get what was essentially the last thing the band released (or had released in its name) is inexplicable. That it's such a good record makes my delinquency even less acceptable.

The Radio One Sessions is one of those cultural phenomena that Britain seems to specialize it. You'd never see it in the States, at least these days: a band is invited to the radio station to play some songs, which are then recorded and (eventually) released. The only American thing I can think of that was similar- 'was' being the operative word here- would be the King Biscuit Flower Hour, which is defunct and focused on concerts. American radio is almost uniformly wretched, and it seems satellite radio isn't much better, but everyone knows these things already. I just wanted to comment on how sad it is that something as important as American radio- well, as important as American radio could be, and was- can't even provide an interesting outlet for musical performance anymore. Shit, maybe Radio One in England sucks too, but at least its existence results in good records.

Bitching and moaning aside, if you like Elastica, buy this record. It'll make your day better.

Memories far and daydreams wide.

Here I am again, maybe for a while. The bones have fallen in a pattern auspicious to my return to regularly clogging the internet's arteries like so much bad cholesterol, though it might take some time to get back into the swing of things. I considered starting a new journal, wherein I'd focus on specific topics that may or may not have been covered in my old writings, but fuck it. At least partially, that is- I may fire up a new website proper in the near future, once I'm done familiarizin' myself with Ubuntu, which is the OS I'm trying to use these days (read: since I installed it on my girlfriend's old laptop). Said website may feature exciting discourses on topics such as:

Blue Öyster Cult
skateboarding for tired old fucks
television shows
pastels
Ubuntu for tired old fucks
V8 juice
my current literary undertaking

and maybe more.

Don't bank on it happening soon, though. I'm a lazy, lazy man, so the aforementioned discourses will probably end up right here.

Adios for now, y'all.

-D.A. Smith