progro, non aggro

These thoughts are getting poisonous - I don't want to think about it, but I do. Saw boxes and bottles endlessly in my sleep. 14 hours of repetitive work will do that to you. It was like that the first week at the bakery - invading my dreams - but as I got used to the job, the images faded from my background thought patterns. This hasn't faded yet.

But fuck it. I'll post something else. New artwork, something I drew in Parsons.

Fuck Managers

“Take this job and shove it", Jello Biafra said. Another punk anthem. I can't get a job to quit.

Fuck managers. Fuck their Canadian accents, and their love of martial arts and Bruce Willis movies, and crap culture. Fuck their banality, their empty heads, and their keen interest in the minutia of their professional niche. Fuck people with an inflated sense of power and accomplishment. They'd be cute, if they didn't preside over my fate. Fuck people who won't judge me on my performance but on their "perception" of me. When you train to be a manager, is there a test to make sure you're enough of an asshole?

He’s not 100% sure that I fit. I didn't show enough "aggression" in finding things to do. He said it was a slow week – not much to be doing, no opportunities for aggression, bad luck for me. So he sees my predicament – but he doesn’t give a shit. Fuck my opportunity. He’ll try some other people. I learned everything in two days, did my job as good as anyone there, proved I was a good worker. But if they keep moving down the list, someone will come along who LOOKS the part as well. Presentation. Cause it’s a fashion show, apparently. It’s Blue Steel. You gotta look good. So someone else will do my job, it’ll get busy again and they’ll look better. I’m sure they’ll need the work a lot more than me, too.

Hey asshole, think maybe you could have explained your dumb evaluation criteria to me at some point during those 14 fucking hours? Cause I could have ripped the bottle-filled flat out of my co-worker's hand with aplomb and yelled: "No, I'LL do this - I AM THE KEENEST DEPOT WORKER IN TOWN MUTHAFUCKAAAAAH!" I'm perfectly capable of doing that. If that would have allowed me to stay on, in your esteemed arbitration, good sir, I would have happily done it. If injecting amphetamines to appear more energetic than a normal human would have improved my chances, I’d have done that too. It's just, nobody told me it was required. I didn’t talk much, kept to myself. Well fuck that, you thought. Let's give HIM the axe, there’s a mountain of resumes, others we could hire, who would listen to our lame chatter.

So after my two day trial, I'm back to being unemployed. I thought I was in the clear there for a second, all the angst finally a thing of the past, but no. Maybe if the next crop of replacement losers turns out to be even more "non-aggressive" than me, I'll get to go back to work for mister dipshit manager. But probably not.

You'd think I'd be used to this sort of disappointment. But still, I got that jolt of vertigo, when my status was revoked, unexpected, out of the blue. That sick feeling. End of the day, I get paid, everything's cool. Finally I've got a job, what a relief, I'm done jumping through the hoops, all the bullshit, now it's security, money, then: Nope, false hope, back to zero.

They don't like my type. They don't like that I won't talk about hockey with them, and other bullshit I don't care about. Hey, I tried, I tried talking to you people but there just wasn't much to talk about. So sue me. Can't we just do our fucking jobs? Guess not. Maybe he's right, maybe they can squeeze out 5% more efficiency from the next poor fuck who tries out. But I doubt it. He'll be a regular drone. But he'll be on the right frequency, the keen frequency. He'll be one of those Nelson people who work at recycling bottle depots, one of the ones allowed in by the managers. He'll fit. They'll like him. They'll know him. Nobody knows me.

If somebody knew me, I could get a fair shake. They'd know I'm a good worker, honest, reliable, intelligent. They'd understand I'm over-skilled for blue collar shit work, but that I prefer it to leasing my brain to corporate Canada because I like saving mental labor for art and thought. They'd know that if I'm not hyper-chatty-keen, it's because I'm quiet by nature, and a little shy and neurotic, but nothing that gets in the way of me doing a good job. But there's no ministry of nepotism. There's no government agency that will coordinate a relative or friend of mine with a job opening in this absurd network of the working world.

I do have friends sometimes and they help me sometimes. I do appreciate it. But I'm so fucked in this society that it's rarely enough, their efforts. I need a fucking ministry. Shit like this is why I'm partial to communism. Although, ironically, it also makes me want to become an entrepreneur, just MAKE money, find a way. Hey... anyone wanna buy insurance? I’m starting an “alternative” insurance company. I’ll play it by ear. I, IV, V.

I'm so sick of working FOR these fucking people, with their irrelevant standards. I'm sick of being at the mercy of these fucking managers, of begging for a space in their workplace. Fuck trying to get their approval, and pushing myself to my maximum friendliness threshold, and having it not be enough.

It was the same bullshit at the Kalesnikov lumber mill, same manager asshole, same biased fucktard. I don't LOOK right to them. I'm too small, so of course I can't do manual labor, not like those normal people, with their normal speech patterns. And I'm not terribly terribly interested in everything. Just interested enough to figure out what I have to do, and do it well, efficiently, and fast. But I don't look like some barely cognizant ingratiating idiot boy who's just so so happy anyone is even considering him for anything. I actually WAS so so happy, but I had the dignity to hide it.

Fuck this town. Fuck this "community". They won't give me a place. I've lived here all my life, and I have no place, except my parents' house. I'm not allowed my own life here. Not even a 9$ an hour job at the fucking recycling depot. I'm not asking for much. JUST A FUCKING JOB AND A PLACE TO FUCKING LIVE. There is no community here. Just the usual cliques. Idiots with idiotic accents, saying things in a stupid way to fit in, to fit in, to fit in so they can keep their stupid jobs, their shitty low-paying jobs, so the enterprising people can make tons of money and live in the ring of mega-houses outside town, and their serfs can live in the shitholes below. You're not born with a Canadian accent. You acquire it, by playing along with the dumb fuck hockey jocks who can manage a puck and a stick and a bottle depot, the pinnacle of their careers. I've almost acquired that way of speaking at times, when I've been affable with the idiots around here when it seems like they aren't judging me, and aren't fucking up my future with the power they've been given by higher ups. But I shake off the stupid talk, because it's not me. So I don't talk right. I don't look right. Not like them. Even if I do my job right, it doesn't matter.

At least I can wash dishes to people's satisfaction. I can do housework. I'm valued by my parents and my girlfriend for cleaning and organizing things. Too bad I can't get paid for it. I could if I was an illegal immigrant. Desperation is so tasty to employers. I'm not desperate enough to act desperate. But I really wish some fucking person would hire me to do some simple fucking job for a barely livable wage. Is that asking a lot?

The only thing I can really do is music, because I can do it on my own terms. It'll have to be on my own terms. Fuck everything else.

belladonna

sex hasn’t been the same since they put those vitamins in our water supply. there was a slippery inversion, now we lust after the aged, the ones who dare show up at the bar. maybe this is what they meant when they said we’d live in our imaginations. we just didn’t realize the shift until we were mired in it, lusting after their imaginations, our re-sexualized crone neighbors, whose minds are filled with books we haven’t read, the implications of the failed lancaster missions, what adult children inheritors of the cultural shitheap can’t begin to piece together.

so the mental universe is unwinding, something’s moving backwards, and some say it’s perverse, but there’s no denying, the oldsters got a hold of their power. or was it the children who found it? is it us who symbiotically discovered, empowered the fermented and demented minds of the fifty, sixty, seventy somethings, dived for fecund thoughts, the intellectual fuck like the progressive rock masterpiece notated in hexadecimal grids with color-coded counterpoint? did we re-supply fort knox? the economy is in the rotted fruitcore, james’ giant peach.

“well, we kind of got back together, me and her,” i tell him, my mid-life crisis friend. “but hey, don’t let me harsh your buzz, carry out those carnal desires.” i like how that rolls off my tongue, over-enunciated, sarcastic-sounding but sincere.

“hey is this chair taken?” a young one says.

“no, have a seat,” i say, keeping the brittle tone, cutting joviality. i will be a gentlemen and refrain from offering cocain. instead i will buy her a shot.

“how are you tonight?” she asks, sitting beside me. barely sounds inquisitive, i can tell from my peripherals her eyes are darting, she’s looking for someone else, better company. i will strive to suffice. i can’t look yet, the ritual hasn’t progressed to that stage. the ritual? what ritual am i performing? i’m making it up as i go along. in peripheral, she appears slim, small, blond, one of those rag dolls i used to love, the climax would be quick and meaningless.

“this is mallory, we’re going to jam tonight,” i say. yes, get mid-life crisis connected. this isn’t for me, i’m on vitamins now. “can i buy you a drink?”

“yeah, okay,” she says, a little taken aback, sensing the trap, the ritual i haven’t finished inventing yet.

“a shot of humidor for the lady!” i call to the servant girl. i’m allowed to call her that, albeit to myself, because i gave her a ten dollar tip last night, although i’m not sure she remembers.

“what’s that?” our new table-mate asks, dry, almost as brittle as my boisterous and distancing tone. “sounds operatic.” still, it’s a good question, she can play, riff.

“yeah, i think it was carmen’s suicide elixir,” i say. i can tell mallory is straining for a monty python reference, since that is what he’s best at. now it’s my duty to give him some sort of set-up.

“one last shot and salut,” she says.

ah. i love it when i don’t have to hold the universe together at the corner of the smoking-room table.

“she’s joined the bleedin’ choir invisible,” mallory says with a grin. i allow a look and she is smiling. “what’s your name?” mallory asks.

“molly,” she says. “what are you guys doing on stage tonight?”

“we’ll just see what happens i guess,” mallory says. “hopefully get some kinda groove goin’.”

“he plays bass. did you see that huge-ass keyboard propped up against the amps?”

“mmm… i don’t think so.”

“yeah, well that’s mine.”

“keyboard player.”

“when i have to be, yeah. we’re just gonna improvise, hopefully it will be cool, maybe it will be crap. hopefully we won’t bore you.”

“yeah, well, i just came here to smoke anyway, unless you need a drummer.”

“you play drums, eh?” mallory says. “well for sure, come jam with us. looks like you need a smoke too.”

molly reaches into her purse for some change, but mallory has a canadian classic filter in her face before she gets far.

“thanks.”

the humidor arrives on a tray, it’s so easy easy when everybody’s trying to please me, sharing the wealth, your typical tequila puddle and loose change cup runneth over. she picks up the shot and slams it down, workmanlike. emerges, nearly choking but hiding the nausea admirably.

“forgot lime,” she croaks.

“yeah, that’s sipping tequila, you shouldn’t shoot it. but hey… does it help you play drums better?”

“no.” more darting eyes. it comforts me, i was getting weirded out thinking she had latched onto us, pathetic me and mallory, having to live up to being some sort of menschen. being transitory company is more comfortable. she is latching onto mallory’s cig though, like it’s her own.

“so…” somebody says, or was that in my head?

“you guys are musicians, huh?”

“well i call myself a musician when i can,” mallory says. “wanking is pretty much the highlight of my day.”

“and mine,” i chime in.

“are you guys talking still about music?”

“well let me put it this way, molly,” i say. “if my ratio of sex to masturbation was expressed as a percentage, there would be at least four decimal places.”

“one in a thousand?” molly says. “my god.”

“you know, that doesn’t sound all that bad to me,” mallory says. “or at least it didn’t while i was married.”

“oh, i have lots of sex. it’s just that i jerk off like a fiend. no pussy can keep pace!”

mallory cracks up, then gives me an odd look. he’s wondering what’s with me tonight. it’s freaking everyone out. i guess it’s the vitamins. i look over at molly and she is smiling, but it’s sort of a grimace. but sort of a smile. she’s hanging around, because we have managed to be entertaining, even though i’ve barely looked at her. mallory has looked, a lot. go mallory. close the generation gap!

“what do you do for fun, drummer girl?” he says.

“i hit things.”

there should be more. the humidor is revealing this to me, even though i didn’t drink it myself. this is crossing a line, but i lean over to her, finally looking her in the eye for the first time.

“you know you’re not real right? you’re just a topical manifestation of my short term memory, the neurons that still fire up the limbic system a little, a contrived, ad-hoc array of jumbled emotional stimuli – psychologists could glean much data from it, but as literature, it’s junk.”

“so you’re giving up on me?” molly asks me, looking back with eyes that change color every few seconds. “like i don’t have a character anywhere? you cared enough to give me some lines.”

“and you cared enough to come by. it doesn’t quite add up. things rarely do, here. maybe i’ll figure out who you are later. i haven’t really figured out who i am yet, even. all i know is, i’m on vitamins. let’s play some music.”

i continue that thought on the keys after i’m set up, saying: “this is what i’m thinking right now”, thinking it can flow, should flow, why not? kicking it off. then mallory interlopes with something that i’m not sure is a riff, and i scramble to play around it, losing confidence, and fucking everything up. is this my line, or his?

i realize i am continuing my thought, expressing my feeling, with utmost integrity, in sonic nausea. yes, a triumph of vertigo. might as well play it up. i play some arbitrary arpeggios while looking at the bar crowd. no one looks back.

i realize molly is playing, hitting the cymbals, an array of cymbals, a pattern that uses nearly every part of the kit, sounds like to me. so i lose awareness of what mallory is playing on his bass and try to match that beat, something that feels comfortable between those symbols, but the arpeggios take me away again, astray with augmented chords, so i justify it all by saying syn-copay-shin!

i return to my keys, reflecting odd-angled house lights. it’s always so different playing here. and i shouldn’t have to look up, i should be able to direct this trio with my ears, but who is the leader now, am i comping or leading? take charge! better to take charge than be uncertain, half-assed… but shouldn’t i let the rhythm section… is this chord allowed? oh, is he playing a whole tone scale? no, that’s me being desperately analytical when there’s no time to feel.

martial snare rolls in the midst of this, and sure, i’ll march with you, i’ll follow you into hell, i’ll try, anyway, i’ll do it for you, molly. let’s call this: death march, i’ll quote the dies irae, like anyone will notice, certainly not when i fuck up the melody, but you can’t really fuck up that melody cause it’s already fucked up, stuttering measures of notated meandering, so really, i’m just channeling.

of course there is no end but i pound a fermata chord between the wisps of dying drum and bass anyway, it’s not my fault, sounded good in a warped sort of context, hopefully the audience is all stoned or not listening, either would be nice, it’s over, so without missing a beat, i grab my keyboard, forgetting the patch cord which hooks on a mic stand, nearly sends me sprawling, the sound guy moves to catch me but i’m alright, another beer and i would have tumbled, but i’m alright, just keep your distance people, i’m getting my shit out of here as quick as i can.

thankfully, no one meets my eye, until

there is someone to greet me, white-haired woman without the glaze of the younger ones, but a laser-like gaze burning into me, beaming gargoyle from the bar, and when she leans into me and looks into me, i can tell she’s one of those parched and pursed gateways to incredible exponential edible mentality, eventual sexual ecstasy via the arabesque weave, the glass bead gang-bang. i’ve seen her around, on the arms of the potent, advertising her unattainability to the plebs, legendary for her mind and its flexibility in states far beyond intimacy, leaving the yoga hall where the rip-off artists conned mystic hippies, and the health club where the failing bodies would compete for the best meat. the legendary mind is looking well, carrying a sixty-five year old avatar with dignity, and if you think that for every fold in the skin are a thousand in the cortex, and the vortex that leads to is telepathic consummation of a non-local free-range rogue-star binary system in energy times the speed of light squared being an equitable metaphor for the implications of hyper-evolved dendritic entanglement and catalytic fulfillment of desire, even if you’re still stuck on the cock-gobbling chemical level, and especially if your cells are still controlling you, it can lead you pretty far. on.

she says: “it sounded like you were deconstructing keith emerson in a jazz context but a proper presentation of entropy requires coherency.”

nodding, i say: “i hadn’t thought the premise through nearly enough.” i hope this is an adequate response. maybe she’ll buy me a drink.

i think about what she looks like in her mind. her attentive eyes allow me this connection, she is splayed open and lubricated. it’s a trick i’ve acquired since my vitamins kicked in. layers peel away. colors change, it’s a seasonal kaleidoscope. her lineage does, of course, go back all the way to aphrodite, that much i can see, and she sees that i see, but no further, and let’s leave gaia out of this, wouldn’t want to get incestuous, i’m not that far into this reversal. i’ll keep it greco-roman, maybe establish a nomadic euroromp in our shared hallucination, that jet-black witch bitch, starved through anorexic aesthetics, fleshy when necessary, voluptuous at the summit of let-them-eat-cake, does she like that dress? because i do, in spite of myself, i’d put my head in the guillotine for her.

“what do you know about belladonna?” i ask, falling into the vortex, streaming through.

“i know it was useful at the opera house,” she says. “they thought our eyes were beautiful dilated, though the rogues had no need for that, they had less natural, more human methods of dilation, i could pretend you are one of them…”

Alt D

White space capsules, in their small plastic sheath, concealed, but always at hand. They're like my suicide pills, except pro-active, in the way of sedation, negation of the importance of the serious players in the drama. Maybe not self-destruct, but self-dissolve. Alt D is the self dissolve combo. I press it heavily. I am already a flake, and the flake flakes into crumbs, powders off into the night.

Damp Sailor's Sarcastic Template

"just... as you need it," he says, after crushing up the green pill under the credit card, instructing me not to rail up the whole second hit right away. he taught me this, like he taught me other things, a secret handshake, making sure i can do it right, so i don't get my ass beat. as i need it. no, he's right. the buzz is still strong. no need just yet. the problem is, what feels so righteous to play and say, and sounds so synesthetically perfect in the moment that creates it, dies quickly, leaving the purest wrong in its wake, like a paint-by-numbers sarcastic template. but that's for the aftermath, an abstraction so far over the horizon, i can't imagine. cause time is dilated when there are no worries, and you're flowing with more happy juice than any brain ever experienced at once until the advent of mescaline-derived synthetic phenethylamines. gulliver traveled with me, up the snow, not used to hills, yukon-boy, a year younger than me, already having written two novels more than me.

federico moulista is hunting for zombies. he has just taken up smoking. it makes sense, tonight. he has found himself some comrades. myself among them. all we need is some girls. yes, here in this absurd room. that would be perfect. the union. a quixotic quest in hypothetical lobes of heiroglyphical dens. just as i need it. but this thing doesn't fix everything. it's not got the force of something that needs to be said, that driving idiom thing. hopefully, the word "ego" isn't important anymore, ergo, whatever. it's not that those lofty juvenile pursuits were worthless, naive and stupid, it's just that they were more than i could be arsed to deal with, come to grips with, and actually trying to do that would look so uncynical and out of step with the function of society, so cartoonish, i'd end up in some primary colored ward of the loony bin and decent men would never so much as speak my name, because i haven't got much of a grip on anything, nor a grasp, and would rather i saved my strength to ornate the fineries. yeah, whatever pool-scraping that implies. it's a savory purple night-day on the cracked aqua concrete of the empty pool, balmysoul starshine through the sunfield, a kingly jungle of cosmic rays. it's been leagues, aeons since hallucinations, i welcome them with open arms:

after a cascade of fractals in the foam of rivers

i'm greeted by the vivid visage of a face, he's the guy

who sketched me a man in a chair

signed it

while i reeled from his weed

while i tried to eat his wife's indian food

prawns, never before, when in the

transcaucasian orchestra, he heard the pocket

as keith jarrett played. fell with me into the groove, i was so happy to have a fellow there with me, the fellowship of the groove, and it was his hydroponic edmonstone grass i'd smoked just minutes earlier, this new and improved laboratory study of a day, man alive, there are men alive in here, nobody knows how or why we keep going, maybe it's because he's hitting the piano at those intervals primed to make me feel like a dolphin being fucked by a unicorn.

federico snaps me out of my self-regarding trance. he wants to watch amadeus. i tell him no, fuck that, it's a great movie, but let's stay here and hunt zombies. it's better i tell you. and i don't even need reserves yet, anyone can plainly see, i’m flying above any sort of care anyone could ever imagine. wastoids, wasting time.

he heard the pocket. nevermind what it means. nevermind what it was. let's feel what it ought to be. the valley. stretching from one horizon to another. the ground feels high, like we're closer to heaven. it's so hot in the day. so cold at night. one girl honestly said she's on cloud nine. i believed her. i also believed the other one, who could be her counterpart, literally, or figuratively, when the dew is demonic, damp is the devil, a tremor in every extremity, a shiver in every fiber, no corner to hide to, it's all out in the open, the peripheral sounds, a drip drip of dementia and disease, all for the worse, the same person, in the dregs of morning, when other staggers are coming up, getting up, finding their own pleasure centers, when she said this is the time... the time when she feels gross. i was horribly in tune with that statement, disgustingly empathetic, striding in particular to parallel... and now, beholding this soft-spoken scream-slur in extreme third person, being months and months later, i see the erosion of values and things and scenes as being sublimely fucked up.

upgrade my gray matter. it won't be better than yours, don't worry. it can't be. i just want to whiten it with baking soda. i want high definition perception, if possible, just plug it in. headaches chase me through porter filters. bully for those stout bastards, i'm going to stave them off with naproxen, just to be specific.

it was one of those dreams that keep me coming back to sleep. the ghost in the next room got up from his professional slumber, morphed his torso upwards to my nomadic bunk, decades in the making, fifty feet high, in a little plywood corner, with my mates sleeping and wandering around and getting them selves into trouble, and ladled me some nectar, enriched with pure heroin, it was more than enough. i said i'd be a crack whore for the number 23, i'd run his numerology racket, i'd be a minion, a peon in the pyramid - just fill that empty gel cap again, drop it into my mouth, i'll do the rest. so it felt really good, and being drugged in a dream makes me lucid, because it's dealing with consciousness, so everything's meta. so i realized i was dreaming, and the dream paralysis became analog to a placid sedation, which ran through the currency exchange and allowed endorphin surplus, pro pelling me into one of those skiing dreams i love so much, where i'm whipping down diamond drill, an epic trick, a black diamond curving out beyond the blast, weaving musically through moguls, slamming stubborn slumps of snow, commanding contours, who's your daddy, comman-fucking-deering, allocating my weight precisely, allowing a twist the other way for a payday paydirt - yes, i'd call it a reverie.

reality

though

is fueled by toxins

take that as whatever jig you want

take it to the gaping lotus experience

decapitate it in a gapper

that would work, i'm sure

might even heal over certain freedom wounds i've won, by failing every test, every game

obeying every law, unwittingly.

parallel rabbit holes on a street corner

if a tree falls in the woods, is the sound transcribed

for blogger's stenographic record?

collected childhood drawings

enjoy the soft screetch of perception

of being known, of passing through a mind with a vessel

pissing in the wind, whistling past the grave yard, possibly

to be in the fossil record of the digital future

"the digital future", such a linear notion

the foot-on-the-gas mentality, non-harmony

carving a path through planetary destiny

how unfair, those roman plebs long past

never had their life stories preserved in online archives

were only represented as lucius and pullo in a tv series

the only grunts mentioned by name, by julius caesar

a haunted house with a nauseating smell

is somehow touching, a shack remains

one of a few, god forbid we run out of mystery

like we're running out of history

*

i can't stop eating these salsa flavoured chips

as long as i don't think about what i'm doing

and shut off the stomach cam, i don’t want to see

what the eyes can't digest

i'm clinging to light and a lukewarm tea cup

cause they shut off our gas

but not electricity

so we have light but not heat

and earl grey is my new favourite drink

calorie restriction

and consciousness

it’s examination

of gak

of euphoria

what is natural, should i care? what is healthy, is health natural?

what is society, is society natural, is society healthy? should i care?

calorie restriction

and consciousness

it’s awareness

of binge

of food

of brain chemicals

parallel rabbit holes, nevermind the carnivorous associations

so is this a binge, is this what a binge is?

i never noticed before

now health is an issue and

the physical can't be ignored, and the physical is mental

and the mental is physical

because it's all a series of

cycles and if you can determine the frequency, you can see

where you fit even if you don't know what is

natural, and healthy, and society, and should you care?

a wild night with half-caffeinated coffee
analyzing electro-chemical thought to the point of hallucination

a naturopathic purge

no binge this week

no booze this week, just a lot of thc

and now reeses' candy, brain candy after

that meta-fiction movie, a grim laugh at society

is it healthy to laugh at society, if a laugh is natural

does that naturalize absurdity?

alice naturalized to wonderland eventually

throw infinity at the psyche and watch it adapt

like i'm starting to like this earl grey, sans cream, naturally

helium and hydrogen

white knuckle test pilot ejected from energy
doesn’t know what to do
his delusions ballooned to infinity just like strassman said they would
but not in the way he could anticipate or deal with

heaven is in the hole
no color there
don’t think you know
don’t give me that look
don’t think you know
no color there
heaven is in the hole

No Means No Nelson

Goddamnit. Nomeansno is playing in my hometown, in my favourite bar, tonight. And I'm going to fucking miss the show. Because I'm in Kansas. I think I'm going to cry.

No, don't get me wrong. It's great to be down here, with my girl, and my american friends. I'm learning about painting, forgetting about masturbation. A fan brush seems synesthetically useful when stoned. But great fucking timing.

I'm listening to their new album, "All Roads Lead to Ausfhart". It's fucking GOOD. They've still got it. They're my second favourite band, after The Mars Volta, and that's not just the patriotism talking, although that does make enjoying their music and existence extra sweet. By all accounts, they're still devastating live. Fuck.

If anyone in town is reading this, and going to the show, throw me a bone, and tell me how it was. Maybe KCR will stream it, at least.

let's go to guam and fuck a baby
i saw a tour on the internet
they say hell wakes all sinners
but they haven't got us yet
something's wrong in the heartland
there's an evil that creeps upon this land
but they say god accepts all sinners
so why should we give a damn?
i was born of love eternal
but now i do the devil's work
if there's a god up there in heaven
he must be one big fucking jerk

- Rob Wright, Mondo Nihilissimo 2000