Tuesday, February 28, 2012

IT'S NOT THE SHIT THAT COUNTS BUT THE FLUSH: REANIMATING A TURD PT 1 OF ?

...'nnnnnnnn--whirbach. Or are we? Seems there was some gappin', to be expected on a path of sufficient curvy-linearity. And I do like those curves. So we arrive, twistor'd up like a lime drained of use squincheed at the bottom of a tumbler drained in turn. Can't go back again, but you can order another round, should you have the time.

So I stumble forth; it has been a while -- yer outta toilet paper, by the way. No harm done, just a couple less zines in the holster sitting 'side yonder gaping saddle, where I sat straddlin' so sadly a-gapping, tryna get back home again. Sorry that took so long, but some plunges require a bit of advanced coarsework. But be assured that the feedbag is... replenished. And my apologies also go out to yer chosen brand of potpourri aerosol. And as for mixin' stool metaphors atwixt the barside and the backside? You'll get no apology from me there, boyo.

I ain't gwan lie... 'twas a flurry of recent activity amongst several personal game-changers what seemed to boot up for some edspinorializin' out on my unfed feedreeder and a few long-term acquaintensors bleedin' my free ear til it blushed red with shameblood that made me suspicious that perhaps this here webchortle might actually still exist. Hell, I wrote it off as spamchum back before Altered Zones even dared dawn 'pon our fair doughmane. Now that their cookie's baked, seems maybe safe once again to slide silently into the pool -- and what a lovely pool it is for mingling metaphors indeed; a luxurious last resort construct replete with swim-up barkeep and enough dim corner lagoons to allow for ample aquatic quaffing and loaf-leaving both. Yes, the water is fine indeed.

Sowhasnu? I've been trying to self-educate: chasing threads, stacking wax, gulping pulp -- but goddam if I can't synthesize a coherence of it all, which I guess is what the plain truth may just be. Patchwork scenes, locally smoove, globally indifferent. Yes, the weird punk monsoon hitting right 'round the last post featured here uprooted much of my tender seedling assumptions, shipping me back to get some fundamentals straightened out per Forced Exposure backissues of yore. Which, I ain't yet fully fulfilled, half forgot where I been already. Fuck, you guys press a lot of records.

But 's fine. Branches to branches, no juncture left unforked. Got my whole life to shit and chase tales, what better companion to my fart's moan than a smartphone? Datamunchin' 'til the year twensexty... Gonna try to ease back into this blather with an inverted jug and a perverted shrug. Friends've said I should keep my twiddling offa music-talk, but I think some squirm'll worm it's way into the framework no matter what way I lean, so we'll see. If the world can really do without discussion of deep disco edits done in the unknown halfslangs of a champion squinter, who'm'I to provide as such? I'll Livejournal the hell outta this piece, no reviewing faked. Problem is, my entire day is spent record slobbing and screen mawing, so -- you get what you pay for, no more, no less. BUT -- I promise complete lack of reference triangulation, and wholehearted halfheartery plus more. Layman's germs, unkempt keyboards. Here goes nuttin'... and here comes nuttin' back.

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