To Me it's Just Monkey Business

I'm in a weird mood, and I'm all about shitting out a ton of even more useless than usual stuff for you tonight, so either consider this a caveat or a casually thrown precursor to a very long postscript.

I have been in the throes of metal of late. I've blogged on it in the Sisyphian avalanche of the Nonalignment Pact, and also in here to some extent. And if you haven't had the gumption/stones/mettle (heh heh)/nerve/desire/intestinal fortitude/or genital development to follow my lead, then you either deserve to spend an evening with Samoth and Burzum (look 'em up), or you deserve to to go bowling with the head of Saddam's brother in law on two for one night in the emerald city.

For your dollar, nothing is as simultaneously ridiculous and utterly satisfying than a good strong dose of Emperor, or Mayhem, or Slayer, or Maiden, or Skid Row.

Yeah, I said Skid Row.

I work with a dude (said dude knows who I'm talking about), who has no qualms not only following his muse, but following it wherever it may lead. Now I know that you - whoever you are - are sitting there reading this in your white belt, choppy multi-leveled haircut, pointy ankly boots, dipped on jeans, smelly pits, and shaved - no make that prepubescent - crotch, and thinking that only irony leads one to the joys of dumb music; but that's only because guys like you are devoid of any soul whatsoever, and are so wrapped up in your men-can-cry bullshit as to overlook the actual feelings that real people feel in the course of their actually shitty life. And hey, not that your life ain't shitty too, because damn... And I know that that new Deerhoof record is causing you to get all moist in the privates everytime you merely think of it, but when you're done stroking your own ego, take a small trip into the land of base pleasure and admit that you too love really dumb cock-rock. My compadre did, and he had the eggs to pass on his right-in-front-of-your-face wisdom to me, and now... I... to... you. Sure, Sebastian Bach is a complete horseshit dickbag, but then so was John Fahey, and we all know how we feel about him, no? Just nab their greatest hits collection online, and add in the Winger collection too, because when you hear Heading for a Heartbreak on the tail end of that baby, you will be sure to grab the first girl with a mullet you see and profess your undying love for her, without apology.

On a totally unrelated note: You know, I've got friends in high places that I don't even know about. And when I die alone - because that's what I've got planned - I'm gonna have a flash of why-the-fuck-didn't-I-give-these-people-the-time-of-day syndrome right at the waning sliver of my time on this epically confusing boat. Cultivating the aura of untouchable glibness is not something to take lightly, and is, as such, something I have learned in my travels inward. And though I don't have a map, I always seem to know where I'm going.

Oh sure, it's easy to sit here and shit out of my fingertips onto the keyboard, and then sit back and wait for the recriminations to waft back like an anhydrous ammonia spill on the tracks of a northern line. When you look at the horizon and are just able to make out a shadowy version of yourself, barely recognizable, huddled, shivering, maybe even naked, and you realize that all has been taken away by no fault of anyone but your own, it can be a little sobering.

Not that I could possible be any more sober than I have been for the last eighteen god-damned motherfucking years. It makes me think of that bragging husk that wrote his great novel about reality, starring fiction as reality, and bullshit as the god's honest truth. So fucked up that he could have easily flown home, in the opening chapter, on his own two arms, whereupon he would shit directly on the desk of his rehab crony and hitch the next cab back to his dealer's for the final draw. And the world would breathe a collective sigh of relief for having missed out on the end times comet that would have been this guy's herculean lies. No, I've managed to avoid that level of self-loathing for a much more proletarian variety.

And so: I have a second child in line for the near future and that is a life killer. The shards of my past self that I found at the bottom of the well they were dropped into, now sit at the bottom of my tea cup and spell out a long, skint haul for the soulless suburbanite experiment I am so embroiled in at the present. Sometimes being radical starts at home too. We can't all be shot by riot cops in Italy in front of a videocam, now can we? Some of us have to hold down the painfully antisocial homefront.

The book I was reading told me to go in for the kill at the end and not to under sell myself by diluting the message. (What are the orders in the absence of a message, I wonder?)

I guess we can give it the old college try.

In conclusion: It could take a man years to learn what I will simply hand over to you like that first hit of crack that sticked-carrot-like hangs before you now:

That new Shins record. it's just okay.

And hold...