Observation: Matt Stone and Trey Parker Know Nothing

The eight week-long champion of Jeopardy!, Ken Jennings: software developer, English Literature degree-holder, movie buff, trivia genius . . .

And Mormon.

That Is All; Thank You.

An Inner Monologue as Composed at One A.M.

"Hm, 'raped,' rape . . . A woman using the word 'rape' somehow makes it almost sexy. Wait, is that wrong, morally? Huh, I think I just struck a deep chord with my masculine nature, resonating loudly the double standards of society by which we live and learn . . . But, I say 'rape' all the time, am I sexy? No, no, I know I'm not . . . Maybe it's because I say 'rape' all the time? Am I a rapist Pokémon? Why did I just make a metaphor with a reference to Pokémon? Because I just had the image of an animated creatured hopping around and spouting, 'rape,' 'rape,' 'ra-ra-rape,' 'pe-ra-ra-pe-rape!' . . . I'm going to Hell. Oh well, I am reminded of that 'Rape Ape' story from . . . What was it? Penny Arcade? Grape Ape was a boring cartoon, Magilla Gorilla should've raped him. See? There's exactly why I'm not sexy. But, if I were a woman, that'd be sexy . . . Or would it? Yeah, it would, sadly enough . . . I'm exhausted and spent from spending an entire day focused on one subject [Editor: Flaubert, Madame Bovary, plus French literature and art movements] and I should go to bed, but not before I make an inane post on my Blog about this train of thought."

That is All; Thank You.

Adios.

Lapidary Practice in Weathered Conditions (The River Runs Dry)

I think that it is, from my writing here, quite possible to believe that I am someone cocky, self-assured, and confident. One may go so far as to imagine the image of me, the author, astride with swelled chest and poised to devour the innocent with my glistening teeth. If one does not go that far . . . Then, well, I am slightly disappointed — mostly, in my own hyperbole — yet, I understand. One’s capacity for imagination may not be as expansive as my own . . .
See? There, that last sentence is exactly what I mean. I write things like that all the time, and it has this tendency to sound so . . . Arrogant, I suppose. I believe that it is the curse of a writer — any writer — to seem that way; no matter the true case, due to his (or her) grasp of language and breadth of diction, the proverbial writer is doomed to appear smug. It’s an interesting phenomenon that I have noticed.
There is a noted and obvious duality to my nature, as a human being; for I am an aritst, and I am writer. These are two distinct archetypes of person, with individually separated characteristics that practically exclude one another, in a mutual fashion of sorts. After years — and years, and years — of self-examination, I have boiled my two halves to just that, though: writer, and artist.
The Writer, he has passion for expression, but through precision and language. These are two very concrete and sedimentary qualities, with intentional delimitation of ambiguous traits. All things extraneous are deleterious to the Writer; he is a deliberate and careful artisan of words, so meticulous in selection the right turning of a phrase that it can wrack the nerves, sundering one’s sanity in the process. Have I said what I meant to communicate just right? Is my sentiment correctly conveyed to the reader? All in all, the Writer is the side of me that carefully considers and calculates matters — the part that writers (obviously), but also programs and solves equations, eschews problematic scenarios with quick rectifications.
Not to say that there is nothing ambiguous to the Writer, but everything that is interpretable and grey lies between the lines.
Then, you have the Artist; full of passion, emotion, sensuality, empathy, the Artist strives for expression through pictorial depictions, by means beyond language and words that reside in a universal perceptivity. To paint, to draw, to print, to speak, to compose poetry . . . Those are the concerns of the Artist, and it all for an ends which is never entirely known to himself. There is an accidental quality to the Artist, he does what he does and only when it is complete does he pause for contemplation of the product. Artistry is instantaneous, over in the blink of an eye, everything that follows the initiation of his inspiration is mere fallout from the combustion. The Artist within me leads me to draw, to listen to music, to write poetry, to indulge in life’s pleasures.
And, again, it is not for me to say that there is nothing technical or premeditated about the Artist, but those are secondary to the process.
What is intriguing is the intrinsic weaving between the two natures that brings forth a third outcome, a combined resultant that is new and unique. But, I have deviated drastically from what I originally intended to write about here, haven’t I?
Mostly, I wanted to say (again, the Writer in me always has something to communicate) is that you can be rest assured that I am rather doubtful of myself. My identity is rather liquid, at times, and can be thrust into reexamination more often than I sometimes like. I doubt myself enough, trust me.
But, at the same time, what I write here is absolutely true for the point in time in which it is relevant. What I put down here is concretely what I think at the time in question, and I do not possess a trickle of remorse for anything I’ve ever written; changed my outlook, later? Sure, yes, that happens, it is bound to occur to anyone that a minutiae of a previous thought — philosophy, theory, hypothesis, conclusion, or denouement — was wrong. This all goes back to the Writer, the one who revises and edits and censors himself to death.
However, of course, there is the Artist; he who has a sensation or momentary flicker of an idea to encapsulate in history. There is no shame to the Artist for what he has done, nor is there any shame in me for what I have ever written, said, or done. I am not disgraced by my actions — disgrace is directly derived from concern for others and their standards. I don’t live by the standards of any one other than myself . . . And, see? Once more, it is so very simple to come across as arrogant and self-assured.
The entirety of it all can be contributed to the Whole of me, I suppose, that third persona which is both Artist and Writer. How I am both self-revising and self-confident, doubting but reasoning . . . All things go forward; nothing is stationary; time may (or may not) be an illusion, but the cyclic nature of existence is indelible, impervious; wash, rinse, repeat, but a shower has to be finite, has to conclude and have an ending. It is the Artist that finishes, the Writer that commences . . . Precision is the accuracy of repeated experimentation, thus a purely precise exercise can rationally last forever; but accuracy is the measurement of error to what is an accepted result. Knowledge of when to let the dust settle can be more important than how thoroughly with which you kicked the dust up to start.
Heh, only I can load up a word processor to write something that is a proclamation of my humility and fallibility, then end with a veritable lecture on how to live correctly. Then again, they say the first sign of insanity is talking to yourself, and I have never denied being a touch Mad.

Adios.

The Inkhorn Doth Not Run Dry (The Most Pointless Entry #02)

Some of you may wonder, "Why is this the Most Pointless Entry number two?" Well, because I wrote the first one before this one, chronologically, but it hasn't been published, yet.

Others of you may wonder, "Is it just me, or did he only just now publish the Tuesday and Sunday entries, this week?" Yes, you're right, I have been failing at keeping this up, but I'm determined not to let it slip too far, ever (without warning).

So, that's it: irony and apology. And, now, needless quotation of Neil Gaiman literature: "Shadow had done three years in prison. He was big enough and looked don't-fuck-with-me enough that his biggest problem was killing time. So he kept himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife."

L’Femme Artiste Idéal

How like all men
to put you on a pedestal in Milo,
To see you birthed in sea-foam;
Likened to mine eyes
Venus —
Beauteous in godhood —
the lovely Maiden.

Yet you are Athena —
wise in thought —
but not;
For she warred
and battle-ready was born,
You were not.

Then the Huntress
suits you,
With modesty,
With strung bow —
solely precautionary —
seeking but to survive;
Artemis be thy name?

In future age
shall you transform,
To Demeter —
Mother of nature —
bearer of Persephone;
In Winter you mourn,
In Spring you rejoice,
In Autumn you withdraw,
In Summer you shine.

My Greek Goddess,
dare I love thee?
My ancient ruin,
Impervious celestial being!
Matron of mine heart
I implore you
to destroy me.

“You know, there’s little in life that satisfies like a cold glass of whiskey.”
Leaning against the marble base of the statue, the speaker tipped the frosted glass he held back and let the golden liquid roll past his lips and around his tongue, savouring the sweet bite of the alcohol. He was an average figure of middle height, with medium-length tan hair that fell in waves off his scalp, cut and trimmed smartly for a middle-aged man. A beard traced his jaw and ran up over his lips, short and streaked with light signs of age.
“Some people, they swear by warm whiskey, saying that room temperature is the only way to do it justice. No, no sir, give it to me on the rocks and give it to me out the freezer.”
He wore a navy peacoat with three large, black buttons, and a pair of black gloves on his hands. He was speckled with flakes of white from the falling snow that danced in the wintry air of the setting sun. Underneath his coat, he had on a red uniform with yellow trimming, that consisted of a red shirt buttoned up to his neck, two stripes about the collar and a pair of ironed, perfectly creased black trousers that bulged out showing that he wore long johns underneath. His thick, woolen, black socks were folded and tucked into his polished, brown dress shoes. The left shoestrings were untied.
“It’s all about the juxtaposition of the fire of whiskey and the ice of cold. It shocks the system, you could say, adding another jolt to the experience of putting it back on top of the already infamous effect of good, hard whiskey.”
Next to him, a taller man in a black, frayed frock-coat stood with his arms by his side, his long fingers falling out from his sleeve and tapping slowly against his long coat’s fabric. Atop his head sat a wide-brimmed, black cotton hat of an Amish style shadowing the man’s wrinkled and gaunt face that bore a wide, impossible smile. Snow collected on his hat and melted through the brim, crystal tears of ice-water crying their way down his face and white strands of wispy hair. A shovel was planted in the ground by his feet, jabbing into the air at an angle away from the straight perpendicular scarecrow-man.
“And I don’t need it. Don’t need whiskey, no sir, I am not one of those kinds of men, who drowns everything in alcohol. I have a good life. A wife, a kid, a job . . . I am a content man with no sorrows to sop up with whiskey . . . I just like it.”
The shorter man in the red uniform tilted his head forty-five degrees backward and put the glass to his lips and pulled the whiskey into his throat thirstily. It dribbled onto his chin, making a golden pathway through his sandy beard. The ice in the glass chinked as it fell against itself and swam around in the glass of whiskey which was occasionally invaded by snowflakes. Making a pronounced Ah! sound, he straightened his head and tossed the ice from the empty tumbler into the snow-covered ground. The scarecrow did not move, still grinning.
“I’ve got a wife, yeah, and a job, here, at the funeral home. Here in Nowhere, with you and José. Taking care of the dead, watching over their graves. It’s a life, alright, a life,” the red-clad man spoke while motioning in a circular sweep encompassing the graveyard of which they stood in the middle, underneath the looming, angelic warrior-woman.
“Indeed,” agreed the black-clad scarecrow.
“Let me ask you something, though? Who names a town ‘Nowhere?’” inquired the man with the empty glass in his hand. “That’s not a proper name for a town, I tell you. That’s what you name a place in a book, in a story. ‘Nowhere, Noplace, Noville.’ Somebody had a dry sense of humour, huh?”
“It’s a name,” agreed the smiling scarecrow.
“And her, eh?” the man turned and threw a hand up at the statue. “Rather ominous visage for a plain graveyard, isn’t she? Kind of dramatic and symbolic, don’t you think? Here in a graveyard in the middle of Nowhere stands the guardian angel of the town, protected by her army of the dead, wielding the holy sword of Heaven in the name of righteous victory — Our Lady Death.”
“That is who she is,” agreed the hatted scarecrow.
Kicking a roe of snow up with his shoe, the man made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and squatted down. With his left hand, he held the whiskey glass, and with his right, he drew some letters in the snow, spelling out ‘Nowhere.’
“This is where we are, Nowhere. Nowhere, nowhere. Where nothing happens and nobody cares. Where people die and we bury ‘em,” the man softly whispered into his coat. “Where an angel guards the virtuous and demons haunt the sinful. Where a spindly man in a coat buries your rotting carcass after a chubby, bearded guy in red makes him all pretty in your coffin.” He looked up at the scarecrow who now towered over him with his plastered smile. “I remember when you taught me how to embalm a body, I’ve had nightmares about you for years. I have nightmares almost every night, it seems, nowadays. You’re a real piece of work.”
“Am I?”
“You and I standing here under this statue in the graveyard in the middle of Nowhere, it’s like an image from a story you tell your kids, about how the evil men spoil the sacred grounds of the dead and the statue comes to life and kills them both,” the slightly inebriated man with whiskey on his breath rambled. “The sun’s setting in the West, the clouds are covering the sky and snow is falling in the middle of July. It’s the Apocalypse or something, I’m sure.”
Getting back up on his feet, the uniformed man put the glass in the pocket of his peacoat and looked squarely at his tall companion, knocking the snow from his clothes with a flap of his arms. “Well, boy-o, you’re quiet tonight.”
“Gotta lot on my mind, you know? That funeral—“
“Hey, let’s not talk about that funeral, okay?” the red man interjected, hastily, wrinkling his brow.
“Maybe it is the Apocalypse, eh? Wouldn’t that be rich.”
“Can’t be, we’re still here. Rapture and all that, you know?”
“Indeed.”

Three Thoughts Tangential to Collateral

1) Jada Pinkett Smith in tons of make-up is not that attractive.

2) I hate bad movie crowds. Theatres should run (and charge for) child care centers. It should be legal and encouraged for chloroform to be used to silence chatty people, or wanna-be commentators; hell, it should be freely dispensed in the lobby, with complimentary rags.

3) What if the taxi driver had been Robert DiNero?

Failure Rating: 23%

Countervailing Misandry

In honour of equality, and (moreso than anything else) my unquenchable thirst for insulting entire demographics of human life in large swoops, I will now present several reasons why women are not, in fact, the brighter sex — as a side-note, I am of the firm belief that neither sex has any intellectual advantage . . . It’s all culturally and environmentally variable, in the end. Live with it.
But, yes, far too often do I hear this argument, this notion that women are somehow mentally superior to men by the merit of their feminine natures. In keeping with the tradition of generalising everything to such a broad degree that it somehow narrows itself, magically, back down into something singular, I will enumerate several factors in the general populace of women that make me wonder why they think they’re so dang-gum high-palootin’. (No, I will never disclose why I used the phrase “dang-gum high-palooting” ever. My secret.)

Now, it’s a well-accepted fact that men have no fashion sense. In fact, were it to be up to the decision of a man, there would be one shoe, one pants, one shirt, and one sock. Two underwear, though, because . . . Well, boxers or briefs? Sure, they’d be repackaged and recoloured, because nobody wants to look all the same; but, shit, who cares about V-necks versus A-shirts versus jersey cuts versus . . . Whatever.
Thus, it can be said that the fashion industry is left in the hands of women. For all intents and purposes here, all those who seek out penises are “women,” which is to say that one can assume I am referring to homosexuals, too. No, I can’t take Queer Eye for the Straight Guy away from the gay community, as I’m sure they’re so proud of its accomplishments. Anyway, women are in charge of the fashion of the world, and that’s how it is.
Explain this, then, in some way that makes the so-called smarter sex seem smart: Sizes. Yeah, that’s right . . . Women’s sizes. Nobody can explain them; nobody. Yeah, you can tell me what they mean in the sense of cut and sizing, sure, who can wear what or what have you, but . . . Exactly what system of measure is being utilised here? Inches, centimeters, nautical yards? Nobody has ever been able to answer this question — even those in the retail world who work with this shit — but, yet, we adhere to them. Hell, women judge themselves off them.
“Oh, look at me! I’m a size zero!” Did you know they have fucking negative sizes? Tell me that makes sense, please. Oh, I’m so skinny my waist folds space and time around itself and forms a negative plane, tee-hee!
All I am left to conclude is that women are satisfied to follow a system of measure with no logic, for the sole sake of their self-esteem. Doesn’t sound so good to be a twenty-eight waist when you could be a two.
Unless, of course, it has to do with bra size, then, fucking hell, use centimeters because it looks bigger that way.

How many times have you been around this scenario: a woman, in a bar/club/restaurant/diner/Waffle-House, lets a man buy her drinks for an entire night. Then, the next morning, she wakes up with a hangover and stained sheets, not to mention some hairy, drooling guy laying next to her. What do they do? Get all . . . Shocked . . . And disheveled. Commence the shouting of “date rape!”
Okay, I have a quick bone to pick with the legal system of America about that, too. When a person voluntarily consumes intoxicating beverages and gets behind the wheel of the car, it is their fault when they run over a six-month-old baby, right? Drunk driving, reckless driving, all that sha-bang. But, when a woman voluntarily consumes an amount of alcohol that renders her staggered drunk, then someone has sex with her — to which she expresses no argument because she's dead-drunk — it’s the fault of the other party involved here, now? I propose a “drunk fucking” law that charges people who get drunk and “accidently” have sex with fines and charges; preferably, they spend some time in a jail cell and learn what it really means to involuntarily engage in intimate activity.
(But, not to take anything away from actual date rape situations, of course; hidden drugs and spiked drinks and what have you — bad, bad.)
Back to the original subject, however; seriously, how many times does this work? At what point does the woman actually stop and equate alcohol with loosening inhibitions for easier sex for the man with the drinks? When does it get through that men do not buy you shit for the sheer sake of it. When a stranger gives you gifts, I will tell you right now, it is not because he is Santa Claus . Well . . . He does want access to a chimney of sorts, at night, and he won’t complain if cookies and milk are had afterward, but I don’t think there will be jingly bells and red, fur coats . . . Or maybe there will be, what with fetishes nowadays. Hell, blinking lights and mistletoe being involved wouldn’t surprise me, anymore.
Nevermind, Santa Claus is the one getting women drunk and having sex with them. He even leaves presents! For which they prescribe medicated ointments, I understand.

Do you know what else for which women are responsible? Soap operas. Yeah, it ain’t men sitting around, drinking brewskis and eating peanuts, in front of Days of Our Lives. I’m rather certain that soap operas actually are responsible for terrorism and most heinous crimes in America, too. Salamu Al-Jazzy Jeffahed couldn’t take it when Cindy left Jeff to marry Rick, the long-lost twin brother of Vinnie who is now Veronica because of a tragic surgical mishap performed by Dr. Lou who was possessed by demon-babies from medieval Japan. Thus, he bombed a kindergarten. Are you happy, now, Cindy? Also, have you ever noticed how all evil characters in soap operas are Latin? It’s always Rodriguez or Miguel or Carlos or Quesadilla-Maria. Never Bob.
There are more faults with soap operas than there are words for in the English lexicon: bad acting, poor directing, terrible writing, predictable plots, stock characters, redundant settings, rehashed ideas, unoriginal content . . . If Gustave Flaubert were to be writing Madame Bovary in the 20th century, she’d be watching soap operas and not reading romance novels.
Not that romance novels ever stopped sucking. Which is another industry that women wholly endorse alone.
Explain that away, women.

Before I end this, I will remind everyone that, no, I have not forgotten about retarded sports programs, machismo advertising, or The Man Show. Men do stupid shit, too. Women do just as much, though, is my point.

Explain to me why, precisely, women wear some kinds of make-up? I can understand lipstick or eyeliner or foundation . . . That makes sense, aesthetically. However . . . Eye shadow? Okay, what? No, that’s not any shadow, because it’s fucking blue. Or pink, grey, red, purple, brown, beige, checkered, pinstripe, etc. Speaking as a man, I can not say that I have ever thought to myself, “Damn, she’d be gorgeous if only the space between her eyebrows — which are, in actuality, pencil-lines that aren’t fooling anyone — and her eyes were blue.”
Yeah, it’s not attractive. Prostitutes of the 17th and 18th century wore heavy make-up solely to cover pox-marks and other blemishes created by disease. Do you know what heavy make-up tells us, women? You’re a time-traveling prostitute from the 1750's who has been transported into the future by a mad scientist bent on taking over the world via implanting whores bearing smallpox into the future.
That’s . . . pretty sexy, actually.

Adios.

A Tip for the Conscientious Reader

When buying used books, it is best to widen one's criteria for selection from merely being "no markings made by previous owner." For example, ensure that the gluing of the spine is secure, and that the pages are not ready to fall out at the slightest tug. It is no fun, dear readers, to tape a book up page by page.
This has been a public service announcement by the Madman at Work.

That is All; Thank You.

Retrospective Observation of the Day

A student in a public high school, that is paid for by the taxes of his parents and accessible to all people, constructed a sculpture in an art class — that had no materials fee or extra cost — centered on the theme of the censorship of young minds in America. The sculpture was displayed in a juried exhibition that was open to freely view for a month with no ticket. That, Alanis, is ironic.

"Woman in Motion"

My eyes seem reminded of an egg:
white, a thin shell concealing warm life;
Or, otherwise, a fruit — round, plump,
indeed, the shape of something juicy.

But, independent portions do move against one another:
as one does rise, the other falls — the machinations of machinery.

From the point of view of an artist,
the lines (curvaceous, voluminous) appeal,
from an aesthetic standpoint.

Still different, the sensuous poet —
destined to imagine the feel, fragrance —
would, no doubt, construct a metaphor of nature:
O Mother Earth’s bounty doth surprise mine eyes!
Splendid! marvelous! my word I would give forever to know its ends!

And in songs, bards would praise Heaven;
music swelling to a vivacious flurry —
like frantic bees tied to basso hums —
dum! ba-dum! and drop . . .

I sum it all up, however, in a word:
Vision.

[Editor's Note: You'd think considering updating this only consists of actually posting the entries, I'd be on top of it. But, I have been failing . . . Again, apologies for the lateness, change of habits and environment have thrown me off.]

You’ll never have her. Shut up. She’ll never love you. Shut up. It’s hopeless, you’ll never have her. Shut up. Once was enough, for her.

Pink flesh and white skin twisting around each other like a snake wrapping about a baby and eating it, eating it by tearing one chunk of flesh away from the bone — one chunk at a time — slowly but with wild disregard for scruples.

She had her fill, came and gone: used you, abused you, baby. Shut up. It was all just for that one time, one instant, one moment . . . One second. Shut up. You really should give up, you know. Shut up. Give up.

A mosaic of light reds and pale pinks, each piece only a smidgeon different hue, saturated in the bright, unbearable light. Like a mural on a wall, splashed in random pattern and brushed in emotional, spontaneous strokes, one over the last and the next across the other slashing forth around the centre and moving to the side, from side-to-side then up-to-down, left-to-right. A blur of a meaningless mistake, splayed out in display for the mind’s eye.

It’s possible . . . No, it’s not. You know it’s not. You always say it is, but it’s not. You need to get over it, get past it, and forget her. It’s not happening. It could — No, it couldn’t — she said — Lies, lies — and I know, I know — nothing — she’ll come back.

A spray of white light dancing across reddened cheeks underneath a green wash of a grassy impression, scattered and unfocused. Shining, glittering, glowing, green eyes wrapped inside a solar sun, slicing the brightness like an eclipse in midday, like a forest star intersecting a white dwarf. Then, mirrored back on itself and reflected, perfect and precise, across and aside, in a pair, two twins in tandem in clouded heaven . . . A sprinkling of gold swirling within it all, the whole time.

You’re hopeless, you know that? She fucks you once, and you think it means something, anything, like she’s the proverbial One, your soul-mate, one-true-love, la-de-da, made-for-you-and-only-you. Give me a God damn break, because you’re an idiot and a fool — she’s a woman! She used you, she had you, she made you and broke you, apparently. All in one fell swoop, thou art undone, Romeo. You are unmade, Dimmesdale, and now you see, Oedipus the King, now you see.

Blood-tinged curls and waves crash over the barrier, over the shoulders, like a thousand ocean storms washing onto the beach, a hurricane of rust and sewage, waste and destruction, collapsing upon the sandy world of the pristine, white beaches. The maelstrom cacophony of wails, howls, groans, moans and shouts, pleas and commands, ride along on the coattails of the thunderstorm, clinging to the gray and black, foreboding clouds of the coming new age of apocalypse and the end-times. All is melded into one and all is chaos, all at once it falls, falls.

She’ll come back — she’ll come to me — I know she will, and it’s only a matter of time. She came to me that one time, when he so hurt her and made her cry those angelic tears, and now he’s gone, and I’m still here; so, she’ll come, she’ll come. There’s something between us, even if she doesn’t know it — but I know it — and then we’ll be together, forever lovers. Just like before, just like how it should’ve always been: without him, and me with her. I know it’ll happen, it’s just a matter of time.

Colours explode like bombs in blues, reds, yellows, and greens, coming forth, violently birthed from nothingness, screaming and bawling — unstoppable forces of life barraging its way into reality. The pitch of the music raises to a high, undecipherable buzzing that teeters off in a squeal, and the convulsions of the ground beneath cease to shake. A peace, a calm, a serene contentment settles down as a cat to nap after slaying an army of rodents.

You’re pathetic, you know that? You make me sad. It doesn’t matter, because I just have to keep waiting. When will you figure out the truth, huh? I know the truth; you’re merely a voice in my head, anyway. What do you know? I know what you know, for one thing. I know everything about you, and who you are, and I have your memories and thoughts, all tied-up in a pretty gift-box. I don’t care. I know you know, too, Bobby. Know what? You know what I know you know, too. You know that I know how silly this all sounds, too, so why don’t you laugh with me, now? Shut up. Heh heh heh. Shut up. Heh hah heh hah hah.

A young man with matted hair, doused in sweat, lays on a bed in the dark, his eyes blank and staring upward. His mouth twitches as he stares at the blue ceiling, and he shifts in bed uncomfortably. The early-morning rays of the sun begin to stream in through the window, like in so many other stories, and reveal to the whole world the messy picture of a teenaged boy, restless and nervous, performing his first task of the day, some cold, Winter morning.

Hah-hah-hah-hah, hahaha, heeheeheehaa, haha-hoho-hehe!

The young adult, the boy so verging on adulthood while being a child, licks his lips and closes his eyes. He shuffles in his bed, then furrows his brow and squints his still-closed eyes. His mouth still twitches. Finally, he opens his eyes, again, and relaxes his face.

I hate you. But, I lo-o-ove you.

“ . . . And that was the latest single from the new ba—“

Reaching his hand out from beneath the covers, he presses the button on the radio and wrinkles his nose. Realising his forgetfulness, he sits up in bed and rubs his hand against the blanket.

“Ew.”

My Beau Ideals of Music

It was never to my tastes to post lyrics on any sort of forum of communication, except for an occasional away message. But, I do listen to a profuse amount of music, so I figure it is somewhat appropriate to do something in homage to that fact. So, here is a short list of some bands currently on my playlist, followed by my impressions for each.

Chris Cornell - From his solo album, between working on Soundgarden and working on Audioslave. It’s interesting, the stylistic change that Cornell has gone through since leaving Soundgarden, becoming much less brooding while remaining philosophical and wandering. His voice never fails to be moving, in my opinion, though, no matter the lyrics behind it; here, they’re very Bluesy, especially with songs like “When I’m Down” and “Preaching the End of the World.”

Primus - Always fun and rhythmic, they never fail to not deliver a song without some sort of silly theme and a catchy bass line. Primus is definitely not the “wackiest band ever,” which certain people may have you believe, and they are far from being that outlandish or deviant musically. It’s rock, plain and simple, with heavy emphasis on the bass, and I can not complain about that since I am a huge fan of the bass. Les Claypool’s thin and nasal voice tells tales of inane and bizarre things that are ultimately pointless, to complete the picture. “Tommy the Cat” and “Too Many Puppies” tend to be my favourite songs to listen to on the fly, along with “Sgt. Baker” sometimes.

Tom Waits - He’s gritty and down-to-Earth, with his mellotron thumping and his voice rasping. I love Tom Waits, because each song is its own being, with drastic shifts between slow Blues ballads and rock ‘n roll numbers, and everything in between really. It’s hard to get used to his voice, for some people, as one friend described it as “He sounds like he’s having a hernia.” Still, no song could’ve been more perfect for Fight Club than “Goin’ Out West,” and there is an ineffable addictive quality to “Russian Dance.”

George Thorogood & the Destroyers - You’ve probably heard the song, “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer,” and that is precisely the song that made me pursue more of his music. It’s Blues, laid bare, and I suppose I should mention I am a big Blues fan. “I Drink Alone” is also a beautiful, melancholy song that strikes me deeply, too . . . .So, a long while after having written this, I realise that George Thorogood is also the original artist who did “Bad to the Bone,” “Shake Your Moneymaker,” and a slew of other classic rock’n’roll; here’s to me being behind the times with rock music.

Muse - I gathered more songs from this band because I kept hearing “Our Time Is Running Out” on the radio, and it was one of the few songs on the radio I really, really dug. Good Lord, did I make a good decision is finding more songs by them, too, because I’m really loving this band, with their unique style of an almost punk-ish Jazz with strangely appealing lyrics. I have been playing the Absolution album to death — “Apocalypse, Please,” “Sing for Absolution,” “Thoughts of a Dying Athiest,” and every other track: all great. Their older stuff, such as “Muscle Museum” or “Feeling Good,” is also wonderful. I can’t praise this band enough, it is the Different Band of the Moment on my list.

That is all.

Adios.

Make It Incarnadine

Why the fuck do I keep hearing “Mother” by Danzig, of all songs, on the radio? This reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to do: compile a list of all songs that need to be laid to rest, or banned from public play for a minimum of twenty years (so that when they are revived, they’ll actually seem fresh).

1. “Mother,” by Danzig - obviously.

2. “Fight For Your Right to Party,” by Beastie Boys - I don’t know about radio stations around you people (and, frankly, I don’t care), but this song has been the God damn theme for one of the major rock stations — FM99 — here for far too long.

3. “I Will Survive,” by Gloria Gaynor - Yeah, you know what? You’re dead, no you won’t.

4. “Dream On,” by Aerosmith - Okay, I saw a documentary on Aerosmith once, and this was apparently Mickie’s angst-ridden tribute to the struggles he had with the band . . . Or something. It’s not a bad song, but we must, as a country, stop support such angst. Stop the Angst!

5. “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” by Diana Ross - Her then-husband died while mountain climbing; yes, there is, Diana.

6. “Creep,” by Radiohead - You know, I don’t know why I think this song should be laid to rest, because I do enjoy it. I believe I can somehow sense the encroaching stagnation of the song, though, so it’d be a pre-emptive strike of sorts.

7. Everything Ever Performed by Nirvana - Read: “I hate Nirvana and am glad Cobain is dead.”

8. “Isn’t It Ironic?” by Alanis Morrisette - The innate problem with this song is that Alanis, the poor dear, failed to attend English class the day they defined irony. I blame Canadian educational systems for this one!

9. “Respect,” by Aretha Franklin - I don’t mean to be picking on female, Blues/Soul singers of the first half of the 20th century, but . . . God damn it, Hollywood and Corporate America, why did you kill the joy of these songs for the world? Why?!

10. “War Pigs,” by Black Sabbath - See, again, I like this song, but not when it feels like it’s being injected straight into my veins every week. Everything in moderation, people.

That is all.

Thank You.

[Late. Again. Sorry.]