Faster blade

Staring at computer screens. Staring at yourself in a mirror and wondering why your chest looks so caved in. Staring at pictures of Siouxsie and the Banshees. On the internet. Staring at the biography of Karl Lagerfeld. On Wikipedia. Listening to Guam River New Maps of Hell again. Listening to Rhythm & Sound Never Tell You again. Fudge bog. I like that. I read it again and I think I'll keep it in its homoerotic Smeagol glory.

This is what could be called a funk, folks. But tomorrow is my first payday. ALSO a long weekend. I am planning on a 'bender of significance'. I hope you have eager plans of skullnumbing for this very special time as well. Soon there will be a bounty of soft, sugary macintosh apples and cider and the sweet corn will be over. Soon I will stare out the window and maybe read The Poetics of Space and maybe listen to endless repetitions of Sun Blindness Music and practice at becoming gaunt. But first a weekend of such illicit debauchery that I can hopefully short my synapses out to the return of the bastard kids returning to the streets. No more empty. Just empty.

I'm Jesus with a laser gun and you're all going to hell.

Definite autumnal whiff tonight. While jogging was somewhat overcome by a shroud of nostalgia with an oddly optimistic bent. It wasn't like I felt too much hope for the world at large or anything, but who does anyways? We don't want hope. We want chocolate with a caramel filling, a la mode, and hell yes throw some damn Hersheys syrup on there too. Fortunately, I have scraped up each of these things and am going to kill my own damn self Cathy-style before I get tooken out. Sugar and then beer while listening to the nihilistic stylings of the Velvets and PiL and then sinking into a fudge bog with Guam River and Spykes. Tainted love.

Ruffage

I am alarmingly adept at shifting to typing sans left pinky, making me curious if I would be a good match for the Yakuza. I could set up their illicit networks while listening to dark sounding acidic dub basslines courtesy of the DMZ imprint. I'll need to practice sunglasses-at-night, and that'll be hard for a dude like me. People might get hurt.

Fast 'n bulbous

I burned my pinky on scalding Prego last night, so everything I do is with an effortless air of extended-digit elegance. Except it looks like there is a maggot under my skin. I am like the cryptkeeper of class.

You know what I need? An ice cold can of Squirt. Stylish.

All the things R&B could stand for

Keep on the lookout for my smooth jams project dropping early '07...

Introducing Bungalo Sh'Nasté.




For the lovers.

Pour 'K?

No boss no boss no boss no boss no boss no boss...

Yesterday I got to drink free beer while standing around a bunch of incoming grad students. Rep the akward stance. Still, the beer was free and I managed to snake all kindsa pitchers before anyone else got to 'em. This lead to the inevitable Pel Meni over-vinegaring, which lead to an abrupt ending to my consumption and me passing out on our living room floor at 9:30pm while listening to Bola Sete. Woke up stone sober at 2:00am just in time for my erstwhile lovemuffins to stumble in drunker than I was. Hilarity was had by all and now she's called in sick and I'm leaving work early. Thangs bode well for the weekend. Geeb.

Burial

Mostly, I want this to be a shout out to the Burial dude, who is apparently 'just a guy' from South London. I'm not gonna claim I can keep track of all the different pirate radio breeds and spliced strains of urban musicks that seep out thru pirate radio and what have you over there... I remember reading some kinda mag article about 2step and garage a couple years back, and yeah my interest was piqued, but I think this was even before I knew about Forced Exposure and the wee number of releases that they manage to pack in. So my initial exposure to such things was, like, the first Streets album and then I remember having trouble finding Run The Road and there's just massive gaps in there. So by no means should I be feeling I have the background to speak on these things. But speaking wrongly is a pretty major reason of why the internet exists, so I'm just throwing this out to thank you, anonymous South London guy, for making this album, and for somehow lining shit up so I could listen to it tonight. It worked out really well.

See, my girlfriend is training for a marathon. I, not wanting to bloat up at home while she exhibits grim determination and iron thighs, somehow managed to quit smokes (unless drinking w/ friends...) and take part in most of her runs. Tonight that entailed 7 miles under some intense overcast skies, the type I've gotta think are a dime a trillion 'cross the pond, at twilight. We found a new branch of the extended bike path that goes for a good ways along some train tracks, past plenty of loading docks and a coal dump, and then splits off on this arrow-straight ditchrun that goes farther than we ran out. By the time we turned around, it was well past official twilight time and on into deep dusk. Bikes would occasionally whir past, generally shocking the righteous shit out of my nightblind ass. At one point, before I got back to what I would call 'populated Madison', it sounded like we were getting chased by some incredibly pissed off geese. Didn't know that geese could do the whole terrifying apparition thing, but they dove into the role with gusto, to say the least. Never saw the bansheefuckers. Thank god. I bet they had teeth.

Anyways, right around the final mile and a half, I start noticing lightning. Not suprising, since like I said it was overcast when we left. Hell, the first thing the radio announcer told me when the alarm went off in the morning was not to expect much sun today. Which was actually bullshit, 'cause I wore the classic long-sleeve under short-sleeve tee combo with wild expectation and was let down. Until the run. And then the lightning.

So anyways, we get home and I take a super quick shower so I can run and snag some Budweisers 'round the corner before 9:00. I already know I'm gonna put on the Burial disk when I get back, and I'm kinda sweatpalmed 'cause I'd read reviews around the internet (google 'em, they're all over) and somewhere described it as driving thru sleet in a city or something. And I like that. And the weather seems roughly appropriate, semiapocalyptic, and so I get back and throw it on and shit, man it's really good. I feel all kindsa things coming from it, but also a numbness, and I don't know, all the fucking hip things in the world are wrapped in this thing, but not because it wants to be hip or even really knows hip. It mostly knows some dimness and some reflected lights from different oblique sources, and yeah plenty of slush, and 20,000,000 other hunks of flesh and gear that I just am gonna have to digest over the next season or 4. Criminy. Jiminy. No. Wait. Partway through Prayer, a tornado warning siren comes on from out in the city. It hits just the right pitch, subtle oscillations making me get up and creep about my apartment trying to figure out if this is coming from the speakers or thru the deckdoor... and... shit... the siren dies off, with that mourning fucking downward glissando, right at the end of the fucking track. You nearly destroyed a city, dude. Cool.

So thanks, from the breadbasket, the heartland, over here in collegevue, USA. Ya done right by all manner of musicks and spirits and such. Thanks much and for anybody else reading this lonely ghost shit, search it.

Mind over matter, look out for the splatter

This is pretty bad. Haven't been in our apartment but a week and we're getting a replacement toilet. It is unplungable, if such a term exists. We have to keep our bathroom door shut because it smells like we flushed Death Himself in there. This is only made more poignant having just watched Eraserhead. What's down there? Will it ever be explained?

But once again, I can't complain that much... apparently our downstairs neighbors have been flooded and Death Himself has invaded their whole damn living space.

That's us: Makin' friends outta the new neighborfolk with a quickness.

I don't necessarily expect to survive the night between septic shock and being hunted down by pissed off basement dwellers.

Flood, Track 1 -- Boris (from Flood)

The soul shot known to make 'em shell shocked

I've just been informed yet again that I bear striking resemblance to a turtle. Shit is cold. But I guess it's my fault that my adams apple lends a disjoint appearance to my neck. Also, my penchant for wearing bulletproofs. What can I say, I love Fif! Anyways, like your animal-familiar is any better. I once met someone that said her power-animal was ants. Had to be real careful where you walked. I couldn't make this up.

Run this shit

Things to avoid doing within the first 1/2 mile of a 10 mile run:

1) Rolling your ankle
2) Tripping on gravel

Tally

Rolling to the High Noon in a few for what I will call the closest sonic equivalent to a ball pit pizza party planetarium bowling party I care to attend.

Just wanted to list it out for you, so you knew:

GOT!

1. Stereo! Sound!
2. Chairs
3. Carpeting
4. Groceries
5. Weak stolen wifi

NOT!

1. A couch
2. A rear molar
3. My paycheck

I hope to utilize a can of cheap Hills Bros. coffee to remedy the wifi issue, but have to finish that shit first. Grounded.

Crouch if you must

We're trying not to break our new apartment, but it is certainly schooling us in many directions. Never have I had to realize again and again that simple things don't just work. We have had an alarming amount of bathroom-challenges in the few days we've been here. Today the rear tank of the toilet was flooding! The floater ball-thing popped offa the lever-arm thing! Now I am somehow terrified of what might be going on in the dishwasher. Or that the A/C will start converting air to Zyklon-B. It could happen... air is a fluid. Much like liquids are fluids. Call me a pundit.

On the ups, we got a purple chair today. Laura wanna go with a straight "gay grandad" aesthetic and I am so down. I still haven't managed to put together my damn stereo, but every day I'm a bit closer to that sweet ecstatic communi0n with my earholes. Until then, I have the unending companionship of Red Stripe hipster beer. It is totally my jam this summer. And we do have a little CD player on the loft level, so I can at least listen to some Thelonious to make me hate the unpacking a little less each evening.

Soon we'll even go grocery shopping. And then begins my quest to quook. I could post photos of my past Pad Thai attempts but you would ask what's up with the stroganoff. Enuff. My DiGiorno should be done right now, and I need another Red Stripe.

P.S. -- Thanks to whomever didn't proteck they wireless neck. Boo to "citywide" wifi. Boost that shit. I'm gonna build a signal boost antenna w/ a Dinty Moore can with the quickness, cross your fingers or get gravy on your toes.

Smoked out

Dave, could you hook me up with one of these?

Boxed out

Reg'lar updates resume sometime between tomorrow and Friday.











I just moved, stupid.

I didn't break the circle, but then it turned out to be an fuckin oval twisted at the middle anyways, or maybe a double helix...

it's been harder to tell since we shot Euclid (or at least clipped his eyelids).

Man I really apologize for dipping into subAnticon blogpost titles that go well beyond the limit imposed by the fine folks at Blogger, but this real world is just a bit intense for a crazyeyed bottlecap like myself. Popped off, tha's what.

So as my first honestly full official day of lost class, I took it upon myself to get up on this "illustrated novel" by Craig Thompson, Blankets. I'm sure everybody gets eerie shakes from shit on occassion, but when you grow up in what is generally considered the boonies to the flyover states you really don't expect to have eerie (fuckit -- EMO) occurences where major hunks of your adolescence are thrown back in yr face as part of a 600 page epic comic book (fuck you yes it is). When yr tryin' to figure out if you recognize that building from back in the day when you ran cross country freshman year -- a comic book building, dammit -- this constitures a major reason to return to that eight dollar bottle of Phillips Blended Canadian. So here I am, finally done with college after seven bloated years and getting wistful over a region I haven't spent significant time in for eight. Am I being cleansed? Lashed? Aw, hell, by this point it's just the whiskey anyways but I'm still straight creeped. It's like I should give you folks someting offa Diary or Pork Soda or, jeezus, Infrared Riding Hood if only I still had a copy. Well, shit. You get somethin' offa Icky Mettle to fully represent a busride to at least one specific forensics meet at the building in question. My life never need be told again. All paths are dug (with scoops not shovels). My only respite is in the knowledge that I am bringing duckboots back for winter this year.

You think I jest.

Watch.

Archers of Loaf -- Learo, You're a Hole

The Wreckoning, Pt 24

I never been tooken out.

I am DUNN DUNN DUNN, hearme?

Whiskey from the bottle... see you tomorrow.

The Wreckoning, Pt 23

Better late than never, keeping my fingers crossed for the sweater weather...

Tears for Fears -- Mad World

The Wreckoning, Pt 22

much like Destro how I command the cobras
touch like Gestapo and demand all the hoes bras


Any takers for my ghostwriting talents hit me up on my hip.

The Wreckoning, Pt 22

Part of my tooth fell off last night. The floodwaters are gushy-ushy-ing. I went to the bar last nite after working (not finishing) my report, which I am now supposedly doing. Rumor has it.

R.I.P. Aruthur Lee. I'd post a track, but I'm not on my musical computer. Anyways, if you don't own Love's Forever Changes as of now, you needs to remedy that. I am surrious.

The Wreckoning, Pt 21

And so the Wreckoning series of content-slender stinkposts turns the drinking age. Normally I would be the complete embodiment of restraint, but this is major in a major way. Something special. AND I happen to have crossed the "Quality-Care Line", by which the standards of all remaining assignments have been reduced to bargain basement levels! Plus, there is no way to make a "quality Power Point presentation" anyways, to even pretend to make an effort to that effect would just prove that I'm not worthy of the higher education I've been ignoring for years. As such, I call down a BEER from the FRIDGE. Then I promise I'll totally finish the next report for real. But first, that beer. Yes, this is becoming "a pattern".

Coley Jones -- Drunkard's Special (from the Anthology of American Folk Music)

The Wreckoning, Pt 20

Movement is not possible, I passed out at 7:30 out of a desire to survive. I cannot finish this, my work. It is not due until Thursday; tomorrow will be hell. But tonight is hell, just ask a meat thermometer. If they don't let me sleep in the aisles of Econo Food, then at least my blood shall run ice cold, a slurry of chilled bile and clotted hate. 80% done, but 97% decimated. It's a hair-split race to that end line now, and Hollywood has ruined any retrohumorism of a "them Duke boys" joke. Karma, indeed, is a bitch.

Leviathan -- Suckling at the Teat of Revenge (from Verrater)