I don't know that I've ever felt as close to a literary character than I do to the protagonists of Haruki Murakami novels. I've only read Dance Dance Dance, and I'm working on The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, but something about the narrators strikes a very deep chord with me. Sometimes I very much feel that I'm in the same tiny subclass of humanity that they are.

I don't know what to make of nights like this, slightly shiftless, alienated, thoughtful, aiming-for-something, Murakami nights. I'd wish that I had someone to share them with, but then they wouldn't be what they are. Unless I was at a party, where whole nights like this get condensed into the space of minutes, or maybe an hour. Those moments when you're alone and are ambivalent to the presence of everyone else, yet are incredibly aware of the world.

I take back my statement about sharing moments like this at parties; I wouldn't want to. It isn't something to discuss with others. Much of life shouldn't be shared; I suspect that my belief in this statement (which admittedly wavers) is part of the reason that I'm not a particularly social creature.

Now playing: (left) tree frogs
(right) "Girls" by Death In Vegas. Over and over and over and over and over.

Holy mother of God, Matt Pike (of High On Fire and, formerly, Sleep) has to be one of my favorite fucking guitarists ever. I just downloaded a new HoF tune, "To Cross the Bridge (The Axe-Wielder)," which I heard live a couple-three months ago, and listening to this shit on headphones is un-fuckin'-believable. The new album can't come out soon enough.

I know that posting this kinda shit firmly cements my status as a (bluuurgghhFUCK) "blogger," but fuck it. Everyone needs to learn some fuckin' metal appreciation.

Fuck me, Destroyer 666 gets better and better with each song I hear. I really need to buy the rest of their albums. Once I get a nice paycheck from the Greensheet, I'm gonna roll up to Spring and hope that Diamondhead still has their shit. I wish these Aussies would tour the States; until then, I'll have to hope that the rumors of Bolt Thrower landing on American shores later this year come true.

Now playing: Destroyer 666, "An Endless Stream of Bombers"

"How is it that I have become the Hunter and the Hunted
and thought has become my enemy?"

-Destroyer 666, "Lone Wolf Winter"

Although I'm free from this at the moment, the lyric above most accurately describes the affliction I've battled a few times in the past couple years. It's nice to find such a description.

Had a good weekend with my folks, my brother, and his dame in Galveston. The beach was, to pull a line from Peter Ackroyd's Milton In America, "highly delightful." (Alas, I never finished this book.)

Well, I've been offered the proofreader gig. Fuck Everyones Internet and EV1Servers- in two weeks, or whenever I decide to walk, this place can kiss my ass.

Hell yeah.

Well, it's Bloomsday. Even Google has noted it. My plans for today include eating a kidney for breakfast, picking up mail, spying on girls at the beach, hanging out with an impetuous younger friend, getting in a near-fight with a one-eyed nationalist, having a hell of a bad time in a brothel, and stumbling home in the wee hours with the aforementioned friend, only to crash in bed and start all over again.

Wait, that's what Leopold Bloom did a hundred years ago today. I'm going to take a drug test, sleepwalk through work, then come home and read Ulysses.

Here's to that a-mazing halfblindhandcramped scared-o-thunder Dyoublonger, James Joyce.

I interviewed for a job as a proofreader yesterday and did well. Today they called and asked me to piss in a cup tomorrow. I'm set. This shithole I'm in now will soon be a bad memory.

Niall Ferguson is well-spoken in this piece about Iraq. I need to retrieve the book about WWI he wrote from my brother's car.

Speaking of reading, I've been tearing through Ladislas Farago's The Game of the Foxes, a history of the Abwehr, and Dreadnought, Robert Massie's account of the buildup to WWI. I love good history books.

This is going to be a fairly fateful weekend. I have two job interviews on Monday that will determine my direction in life in the immediate future. I am going to finalize my query letter in the hopes of enticing an agent into representing Critical Hits. I'm financially destitute until Wednesday, which means I won't be doing much of anything except sticking around the house.

I'm out of beer, having consumed it all, along with much rum and wine, with Matt and Sara last night. There are also disturbingly few cigarettes present. I will need to rectify this situation.

"There's that word again, heavy!"

Nobody bought Axis Mundi Sum last month. Big surprise.

If that isn't disheartening enough, my new RPG.net column is up, and it's as shoddy as ever.

I dare say this has been a productive evening. Since I got home, I've- in no particular order- almost finished A Scanner Darkly, cooked some tasty vittles, broken Critical Hits into rough chapters (23 of 'em, no less, though that little Erisian conceit will probably give way in the face of further editing), worked on my query letter, thought of an idea for a novel, drank a couple beers, smoked some cigarettes, and exchanged pleasantries with a Venezuelan comrade from the Southern Lord forum.

On top of all this, even the last hour of work was good, though I'm morally opposed to discussing either work or the reason for its decency- which, of course, had nothing to do with actual "work."

Someone needs to throw a party soon. A big one, with a good sound system and cold beer and room for me to get loaded and talk dames into dancin' to the Eagles of Death Metal. It's summertime, dudes! Someone get on it, chop fuckin' chop!

A glimmer of hope: I have an interview on Monday for a job I think I'm actually qualified to take. Even better, it doesn't pay coolie wages ("Take me to the Bund, boy, and here's a chit for your efforts").

Philip K. Dick's A Scanner Darkly is one of the best books I've read in a long time. I really wish he'd lived a little longer, since his best work was coming out in the last decade of his life.

Man, I want this job.

Fuck that doddering hack-actor apocalypse zealot Reagan. If this ain't a hoax, the world just lost someone worth a damn. Hail Quorthon!

Like I've said before and will say again, everything is inevitable.

Fuck.

"One room to find myself in
One axe for talking to God
One pill for self-medication
Sweet flesh is all that I've got"

-Orange Goblin, "One Room, One Axe, One Outcome"

Contrary to reason, I feel let down right now, and not by the quality of the new OG album. I suspect it'll be a long night, so it's a good thing I've got a bottle of whiskey and the urge to write.

Fuck.

I'm such a consumerist whore. I just blew money I shouldn't have on

Trouble- Psalm 9 (ahh, riffs)

Darkthrone- A Blaze in the Northern Sky (which I owned as a teenager and fucking sold)

Orange Goblin- Thieving from the House of God (because it wasn't available when I saw 'em live)

AND I DON'T FUCKIN' REGRET IT AT ALL.

Man, I need a new job. Fuck.

Saw Coffee and Cigarettes this morning. Quality stuff, and oddly tense. Go see it.

I really wish the CD player in my car worked. I could really go for some cruisin' right now, Jim Anchower-style. Instead, I'm at work until ten o'clock. Damn.

What a night.

FUCKIN' A!