I forgive Tim Burton. I grant him amnesty for the travesty that was his remake of Planet of the Apes. I forgive him. In one fell swoop, he had lost nigh the entirety of my respect, and in another swoop, regained it.
The two particular movies of Burton’s that had won my respect, in the first place, had been the classic Edward Scissorhands, and the not-so-popular The Nightmare Before Christmas. In my opinion, what Burton has a knack for is storytelling, in that he can weave a fantastical and whimsical tale, with interesting and unique characters, that contains elements of both truth and fiction, weaved together to form a little world that is like our own, but slightly off. The worlds he create, at least the good ones, are always tinged with an air of dementia or derangement, or just a spectral sense of something lying underneath it all. The suburbia of Scissorhands that just seemed too well-groomed, too idealistic, and way too white (in colour, not race) is what was truly creepy in the movie, surely not the scissor-handed, unwashed man found in the attic of a run-down house. Burton’s specialty is twisting reality around on its tail, creating an environment where what is normally freakish becomes the more sane elements of reality.
I think that which I would say of the subjects of Beetlejuice and Barman really go without saying. Suffice it to say that it is very, very indicative of the scale of outrage I felt over Planet when one considers how incredibly fond of Burton’s previous works I am and one realizes that was mostly neutered by one huge mistake of a movie.
Anyway, in returning to my opening statement: I forgive Tim Burton. The reason for this newfound generosity I feel deep within my heart (oh, how much a generous man I am), is A Big Fish. This new movie of his was great. Out and out, right here, I give it a 0% Failure Rating. This movie just does not fail in any way, honestly. A quick analogy for this movie would be that it is a photographic negative of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman (one of my all-time favourite plays, too), in that all the extreme negativity of Salesman is replaced with extreme positivity. And, apparently, positivity is not a word, while negativity is, according to Word’s built-in dictionary; I hereby decree positivity to be the noun form of the adjective positive, and just forget about the suggest response of positivism. I mean, please -- Positivism? Just, no. No, that sounds like a word a motivational speech writer or self-help book author created. I apologise for digressing from the topic at hand, though: A Big Fish
The general premise that this movie is founded upon is rather simple, in its barest form: so, you have a father who tells a lot of stories, and his son, who has problems coping with the fact that his father's life-story is a long-winded fairy tale, or Aesopian fable. The meat of the movie is the son retracing the series of stories, through flashbacks and memories, that piece together and form what his father's past has been described to him like. I don't really desire to give away the transgression of events in the movie too much, but let me just allude to them, instead, and state that it all entails the involvement of a giant, circus, and a pair of Asian siamese twin girls. Right, so, yeah: completely normal, everyday stuff.
What it boils down to is that Fish is an incredibly fun adventure that bounces from absurdity to implausibility. One may even say that it kind of reads like an old-style, 1930's or 1940's radio program; one may even go so far as to say this is what was intended -- It's not far-fetched to inferr this conclusion. The performances of all the actors are unquestionably appropriate, if not all-around excellent: I was especially fond of the acting in the parts of the movie that were the stories. It was sort of like seeing players from the Dick Van Dyke show or Mary Tyler Moore raise back to life -- horrid, abhorant zombie-creatures of candid joy.

[Editor's Note: The LAst entry in my Drafts . . . This had to be the most persistently present entry in that folder for the longest time, because I started writing it the day after I saw Big Fish, and that was in the theatres. Then, I picked it up once I saw it when my folks rented it . . . Then, I just never finished it. I don't know why I never finished it, but I just . . . Didn't. And, now, it's been so long since I saw that movie . . . I just don't care.
     So, here it is: the last, lingering draft. What comes next will be purely part of a new era for me and this Blog--if anything.]

The proprietor of the funeral home knew his salt in business: that was what they said about him behind fanned faces. The olive-skinned chap was gregarious, it was certain, and his demeanor was unusually never dour, even on a rainy eve. It perplexed the city people that he owned, of all things, the local funerary establishment.
            Eight years ago, he had opened its doors, proclaiming it the “finest final resting place around.” This much was true, for prior to his home, there was only an old church and a small, hole-in-the-wall shack of a funeral home down the street a ways. He named it the Ivory Rose, oddly enough, emblazoning the title in marble stone above the temple-front porch of the building.
            The architecture of the funeral home was barely altered from the original design leftover from its previous usage and original construction; it had served, some fifty-odd years back, as a small library. Thirty years ago it had shut its doors and the building had remained vacant and sealed shut until the new owner reopened it as the Ivory Rose Funeral Home.
It was fairly successful and profitable to the owner. It served about ten to fifteen funerals a month, most if not all coming from the ancient church that redirected its funeral processions to the new funeral home as soon as it opened, to lift the burden of such undertakings off its own back. The owner of the Ivory Rose and the head priest at the church knew each other from childhood, it was rumoured, so in a way it was a joint business venture for them. The priest had lent him a sum of money to help get the funeral home on its feet, and, in turn, the funeral home director sent him a check, a couple months later, for funding of reconstruction efforts in the church.
            The proprietor employed a bare-bones staff, for one to save money and for two because there was a shallow pool of workers in the city. He had a maintenance supervisor with a team of three workers under him for the cemetery upkeep, and a custodial engineer team of three for most extended manual tasks; a caretaker for the funeral home itself, who directed a pair of part-time workers for arrangement, decoration, and the such; the owner knew a caterer who he was fond of referring to his customers, and the local florist supplied him with a continuous amount of flowers and plants to keep the home “alive,” as he would describe the effect. It was a comfortable business, and the owner had done an efficient and neat job of setting it up to smoothly operate.
            The owner, himself, was the one who greeted visitors at the door, dressed in a prim suit and tie. He wore a dark mauve jacket most days, with a bright, white dress shirt beneath, and alternated his selection of ties from a seemingly endless wardrobe of navies, royals, plums, and grapes — he was immensely fond of blues and purples, not-so-secretly. He tended to wear deep gray slacks or outright black ones, with polished, Italian dress-shoes; he strove for a professional yet sombre attire to match his clean-shaven, well-trimmed appearance.
            His hair was parted to the side, combed and slicked back with flower-scented gel; above his lip, pointed mustachios curled up in their waxed sheen. His treated skin shone in the fluorescent lighting of the funeral home, always soaped with a medicinal, aromatic wash, twice a day. He wore a powdered, pine-smelling deodorant, and dabbed a “mountain air” brand of cologne on his wrists and neck. His clothing was duly laundered on a regular basis, and his pants and shirt constantly carried the odour of the fabric softener with which they were dried. Once every other day, he put foot powder in his shoes to keep them sterile, and sprayed the insides with an anti-fungal aerosol. At the end of the day, his guilty indulgence was to bathe in oils and minerals that cost him more than a few pretty pennies, as well. The proprietor was a man who believed in physical hygiene to a degree of religious zeal that matched his friend’s, the priest, fervor for God.
            He was not, however, a vain man, and never spent overly long in front of a mirror or thought too highly of his looks. Strangely, despite his charm and gentlemanly decorum, he remained single and rarely saw women out to dinners or dates. Most of his time was given away to the funeral home and its management, something for which he bore no remorse. In his past, it had been his experience that women were more trouble than they were worth, always costing him countless expenses and more than a little put off by his business of dealing with the dead.
            It tended to be the case that women were attracted to his sharp, good looks and his aura of warm pleasantry and kindly charisma, but lost interest once they found out about his line of work, more often than not. He was a frugal man, too, and did his best to skimp out on anything too luxurious or frivolous for anything, which no woman he had ever met respected. He didn’t associate with many women, either, and tended to be lacking in relevant conversation and possessed no interesting repertoire of witticisms or political jabs; in short, he was nice, he was handsome, but he was cheap and dull, which is the report local gossipers gave. The proprietor knew this, but didn’t care too much about it.
            One day, though, a woman came to him, recommended by name, with a request for service whose name was Lisa Jerusalem. He was struck by her pitiful tale of tragedy that brought her in need of his business, and swung her a fine deal on a package viewing and funeral. She was quiet and seemed, at least to him, contemplative and careful, which he found attractive and a change from the boisterous, scatterbrained chatterboxes he had politely entertained in the past. A widow with a tainted heart, it stirred that part of him that every man had: the desire to be a hero and saviour to some damsel in distress. That was why he cut her an irregular discount.
            The proprietor had nobody to talk with, really. He lived alone, he devouted his time to the Ivory Rose, and his socialisation was purely professional or forced. The tribulation in his heart he felt about Miss Jerusalem was kept secret and festered quickly in its rage of indignation and claustrophobia. Although he had met her a week ago, he felt with a strange conviction . . .
 
“Wait, wait, what do you mean you have nobody to talk to? My friend, do you so quickly forget about me?”   

[Editor's Note: The last remaining entry I ever wrote in the series of stories I had been putting up . . . Not that I didn't like the stories, nor did I lose interest in writing, so much so as I lost the particular kind of free time I had been using to write them. I intend to pick them back up, one day, and revise the old ones . . . Not sure when, of course.
For the curious, my working title for these is Chronicles of Nowhere, and it was pretty much an experiment in my ability to piece together a story by just creating characters and situations. There isn't any outline for the story, and it was never decided (in my head) whether to shoot for a novel or novella.
I have pieces of entries for this story sitting around to finish, as well, but none even close to being worthy of calling 'Drafts.']

Losing Pervicaciousness

Congratulations, STOP. Wish I could be there, STOP.

Purpose, purpose, what’s my meaning?
All this time, all this time, all this stupid little rhyming . . .

I’ve been having one of those months; the type wherein you don’t feel right somehow and can’t place it—perhaps, it’s been longer than a month?—when you simply know that something about yourself is out of whack. Like when a part is rattling under the hood of your car, or when your computer tower starts emitting a loud humming sound.

Chicka-chicka-chicka-thu-thu-thu
TIKKA-TIKKA-tsh-tsh-tsh-TIKKA

Tell me something I don’t know. Is there anything left to know?

So, my usual response to these kinds of feelings is to walk; put on my headphones and take a stroll around the neighbourhood for a few laps; in this particular case, also don a hat and coat to protect from the rain (Hurricane Charlie’s remnants lovingly soaking my state; granted, I’m happy it’s just his remnants). Pop in a Fugazi album, walk until everything makes sense: that’s my choice therapy, not sitting across from a stranger with a flashy degree in Psychology, armed to the teeth with professional euphemisms—I haven’t used that word in a long time—and a pad of paper.

STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP.

”Could you tell me about your childhood? (I need fodder for diagnosis of a psychosis.) Did your parents ever . . . Do anything to harm you in any way? (I need ammo for support of my diagnosis.)”

Speaking of the hurricane, it was due to that little natural disaster that I spent last night—no, the night before last: Saturday, not Sunday—in a hotel room, instead of my comfortable, blue bedroom. In order to avoid the circumstances of last hurricane . . . No—Floyd, not Isabel—the hurricane before last, actually . . . . that involved standing in the hall closet and listening to whistling, roaring winds tear through the trees outside, my family just went up to a hotel in case it got that bad.
Removal from one’s habitat environment is a beautiful thing, I think; it’s a fast way to nearly instantaneously get more in touch with one’s self. It eliminates all those external factors that are present in a familiar setting—memory, association, conditioning—and lets you just feel what you are without influence from where you are. Nothing to account for, and all that is left is your personality.
Everything you build up, everything you construct while in a safe zone, everything you have become when in the womb allowed to project itself upon the world. It’s a test of how you stand up against the weight of a naturally antagonistic world that pushes down upon your accustomed behaviour.
You can not become an adult, a fully matured human being, until you live alone. Or, at least, it’s the most convenient way to get a handle on a definition of the self, without having to worry about others who have, more than likely, helped define you.
If nothing else, I’m never one hundred percent secure with how I feel and who I am until I have no external forces acting on me. It’s always a very beautiful experience.

”How many times am I going to have to do this? Him, you, me; him, you, me!”

ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY. ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY.

Anyway, so I went for a walk after having spent the night in a hotel. I was in one of those moods (or mind-sets, if you will) where I failed to notice the fact that it wasn’t taking a long time to become dripping wet with rain—I hadn’t thought it was raining quite as hard as it was, or it just got worse once I got out in it. Nonetheless, I just didn’t notice, didn’t care. Originally, I had been arranging neatly some thoughts on my roleplaying game: what to do, what characters to make, how to run it, that sort of thing; very typical roleplaying thoughts for those that, you know, roleplay. All in all, very uninteresting material for this Blog.
But, as I knew it would, my mind wandered. And, then, I knew something in a flash: my purpose.

We regret to inform, STOP. Miss you dearly signed sincerely, STOP.

Meaning, meaning, what this notion?
In this ocean, am I drowning, or am I breathing?

The next second, I lost the words; still, I kept the feeling . . . The feeling of purpose. For the next while, I mulled over this thought, trying to come up with words for it, again, but failing. I grasped at different ideals I had created in the past to explain it; combined and recombined different phrases I had used before to define myself. Nothing really seemed correct anymore.
I knew it wasn’t the same words I had originally stumbled upon, but I eventually—after nearly a full lap around the block—settled on “Wrong.” I’m quite guilty of borrowing a bit from bands I admire and love, Fugazi and, in this case, Nomeansno; I identify with the lyrics and music, though, on a basic level of existence. Wrong.

Tell me something I don’t know. Is there anything left to know?

”Be Strong. Be Wrong.”

In a way, the state of being wrong is what I live for, because that leads to argument—am I listening to “The Argument,” by Fugazi? Shit, I am—and argument leads to the redefinition of terms. Three states of being: wrong, argument, revision. It sums up my life, in a strange sort of abstract method. Like an “Action” Jackson Pollock painting, from the Abstract Expressionist movement of the Deconstructive variety; granted, I’ve never liked that movement in Art, either. It fits, though.
Somehow, it seems right, in a sense I can’t convey convincingly through words. Short of saying “I am Wrong,” I don’t know how to write it.

STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP.

tsh-tsh-tsh-TIK-TIK_TIK
THUKKA-THUKKA-KATHUNK

Ergh. Sometimes, I wonder if music defines me, or if I simply project myself into good music. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m all that original of a human being, and not just a mockery of someone else, somewhere. Sometimes, I wonder if coffee actually does inspire me, in a way—I love coffee, and it’s always what I’m drinking when I’m thinking and working the hardest and best.
Strange. Words are always slip-sliding about my head; back and forth, I’m always trying different words for different things. Like a mathematical permutation, English is an infinite series of equations (mostly inequalities). What am I?

ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY. ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY, ACCESSORY. TO THE TIME, TIME, TIME, TIME.

”C’mon, funny-man, make me laugh. Funny-man.”

Not a great orator. I am no great speaker, I know that much . . . Instead, I am a stand-up comic, off-stage. It was a random conclusion I made while walking, that one. It’s true, though; the mode in which I interact in socially is that of a stand-up. I’ve watched stand-up comedy since I was five, I’m pretty sure. Saw Gallagher live at thirteen or fourteen. Saw Lewis Black and Dave Attel just last year. Great shows.
I think I learned everything I know on how to be good company to people from stand-up comedy. I’m an introvert, that much about myself I’m quite certain about and never have deviated in thought on; moreover, most of who I am really never leaves my head. (It’s interesting, as I write this I’m losing my grip on advanced grammar, but I guess that’s because a lot of it comes from very conscious effort to formulate complex sentences and structure things in a convoluted manner intentionally, which loses itself as I stop caring about it.)
To get up in front of people and make fun of life. To have a sense of humour about some of the most horrible things possible. To look at, to look back at, to look forward and see the light of funny that can be found in tragedy. And, deep down, to be the greatest philosopher ever to live. No actual philosopher can touch a stand-up comedian for wisdom, because it’s not intentional, it’s empirical; in a way, philosophy will always be contrived because it’s an art so focused on trying to be that way. Philosophers, all they do is try to explain without doing; a stand-up comedian has, most likely, done what they make material about, seen it and lived in. Nietzsche didn’t do a day’s worth of bourgeoisie labour. But comedians are a poor folk, so they don’t have the privilege to not live a hard life—you’ll notice you find few poor philosophers—and their point isn’t to explain things. But they do it, anyway.
That was a rather lengthy tangent.

I’ve got this epic problem, this epic problem’s not a problem for me. And inside, I know I’m broken, but I’m working as far as you can see.

I’ve been in such a strange mood lately. I’ve dreamt about murdering all the friends I have. I’ve just felt wrong lately. I don’t know why, and a lot of it has to do with the fact that I don’t know why. I’m used to understanding myself, because that’s all I’ve had my whole life: an understanding of myself and not others. The more I deal with others, the more I lose that sense of self, though; because others have started to slightly reshape myself, and I don’t know how they do it because I’m not them.
Maybe that’s my problem. I’m afraid of losing myself to others. But I like others, which is the sad part of it. I’ve grown to love others. A very unfamiliar set of emotions for me, love is. (Why did I structure that last sentence like I’m Yoda?) But, it’s more than that, because I’ve known about this part of my dilemma for awhile.
I want to get away, through it all. I want to leave. I want to abandon everything and start over; but, by nature, I never quit. I’ve known quitters, I’ve seen quitters quit. I have things to do and I won’t stop until they’re done—and I’m perfectly aware I’ll never be done.

I’ve got this epic problem, this epic problem’s not a problem for me. And inside, I know I’m broken, but I’m working as far as you can see. And outside, it’s all illusion, set scenery.
I’ve got this epic problem, this epic problem’s not a problem for me.

.

[Editor's Note: I figured, since the first one was a single sentence, it wouldn't hurt to post two of my old drafts, today. Plus, I want to be done with this by February.
This entry wasn't one I intentionally avoided posting, even though I felt it came out very jaggedly constructed--it wouldn't be one of my classic Rambles if it were concise, though.
I'm mildly amused that, after nearly six months, this is still very relevant. That's how it goes, though.]

A Statement (To The Public)

I wonder what died first: the art of conversation, the respect for language, or general literacy?

That is all.

Thank You.

[Editor's Note: The third entry that was just too damn bland to care about posting, before. Yet, here I am, caring to post it . . . Yeah, yeah, people suck: get over it, me.]

My Mind's Eructation

You know, it’s inevitable; no matter how mature you think you are a young teenager, you will look back and see how you weren’t. People always say this, but it doesn’t sink in or you just deny the notion. And if you don’t find yourself being more mature five or six years later, then you probably haven’t grown into an adult, yet.

That is all.

Adios.

[Editor's Note: Again, a real dull, filler entry. There's good reason why I never elected to use some of these old entries, even when I was stretching my schedule, anyway . . . ]

An Observation of the Moment: No Sanctity Here, Indeed

I’d like to take a moment, if you would, to relish a realization; namely, the one that says that I am, in fact, wearing a cross on a chain that is laying on top of the design on the front of my shirt. You see, this shirt has on it four, bold, distinctly large Japanese characters (Kanji or Katakana, I’m unsure) that translate to “Dirty White American Devil.”
Yes, I am wearing a cross over a shirt proclaiming myself as a devil . . . Smell that? Sweet, sweet, entirely unintended irony.

Thank You.

[Editor's Note: This entry was just sort of . . . Dull, to be honest. But, here it is!]

An Eddy Keeps Me Circling

I do believe I may be the only person alive who is not, in fact, touched by the moving tale of your failed relationship and the trauma thereof. I am loosely certain that if presented with another song about the sad story of lost love, I may very well vomit. I am, also, pretty sure that the love ballad is the most overused device ever.
Pardon me if I am indifferent to you drowning, Evanesence. Oh, and as you fall from heaven, Lacuna Coil, I think I’ll go grab a hot dog.
Excuse me, entire genre of emo, but kindly be quiet, too.

You love. You lose. Get Met, It Pays.

[Editor's Note: You know what's the best part of this old entry? That it made me stop and realize how Evanesence has completely fallen off the face of the mainstream music scene, and that, invariably, all their loudest fans also have seemed to forget about them. Ah, the glorious cyclic nature of American pop culture . . .
Postscript: A note of interest here is that this was originally composed on August 26th, 2004, exactly five months ago. [VH1 Popup]

The Most Absurd Moment of the Day

Alright, so . . . There was just a commercial. This commercial was an advert for Cotex; no big deal, right? Feminine products do not equal crazy.
Except . . . This was Cotex: Lightly Scented, Thin Layer. Thin layer does not, in fact, bother or surprise me; after all, if I were to have internal genitalia and a necessity to stick cloth products in there, I would appreciate thinness.
Let me, however, bring attention to the former descriptor of said Cotex — Lightly Scented. There is a light scent; moreover, it is, as the commercial clarified so considerately for me (the inquisitive viewer), a "natural fragrance."
. . .
I feel as though a second pregnant pause will only help convey the hesitancy to grasp this premise, here.
. . .
Ahem. Cotex . . . plus natural fragrance. So, a part of my mind (the part that has not, by now, shut itself down in self-defense) asks, "Cory, what is the natural scent of a Cotex pad?" Then, my conscious mind, who never knows when to shut up, responds: "Why, I believe that would be vagina."
"How do they synthesize the scent of vagina? Do they jar it? Have little bottles labeled 'Fresh Vagina' sitting on shelves? Do they all smell the same?""Shut up, brain."
"Okay, Cory."

That is More than Enough; Thank You.

[Editor's Note: Another old post drafted way back in August, but still very relevant . . . And the question still remains unanswered.]

She Called Herself a Gamine (I Called Her a Whore)

[Editor's Note: I had a bunch of entries sitting in my Drafts folder, and I've decided to clean it out. For better or for worse, with a few incomplete ones, I will randomly put out these lingering memories. Here's an ironic one with which to start.]

I live to be productive, in some manner or another . . . And that's it, that's all; end of my story. All I strive for existence is to create that which will outlast me, that which will be there when I am not; for I will die, and when that day comes, I don't want that to be the end of anything . . . Everything I will have done, stood for, accomplished and made, I pray, will remain even after that day — my Art, my soul.
This Summer I take pride in having done this Blog, having gotten it to the point where it is now . . . Basically, consistently proliferative. That's all that matters, that this is smoothly being updated; that's what I wanted, and it's what I did. I'm not stopping, mind you, but this is a beginning for me that I wanted to eke out for a long time . . .
Last summer, it was a sketchbook: my goal was to fill it with sketches. I did that, for the most part, and was very glad to do that . . . I produced some of my best sketches in a long time, that way. Granted, I never finished every single drawing, but I came close. Shit, fifty complete sketches was good enough for me; this book had one hundred pages, and I filled, at least, two-thirds. Good enough for me to feel good about it.
And that's it . . . That's my life; I pick something to do, and I never quit. I never stop. I never cease moving towards that single, solitary goal. Sometimes, it'll wan in the years, but it never disappears from my mind; I have goals in my head that I conceived of when I was twelve. Every once and awhile, I still toil for the sake of those goals, too.
I never disclose my goals, either. Granted, "full disclosure" is as foreign a concept to me as not listening to music, or not having some sort of culture, but I do say some things . . . Here and there, every once and awhile. I think. I kind of feel like if I told people what I wanted to do, they'd try and help me do it, then it's not my doing anymore, and it's all ruined. So, unless my goal is explicitly involved with other people, I keep it to myself and go it alone. It's what I do, what can I say?
It doesn't matter a lick to me that nobody may read this Blog. It's not my goal to produce something . . . Popular. All it entailed was to create something that constantly went up with new stuff. That's it. I'm not here to please anyone . . . Which is a concept that extends much, much farther into my life than just this Blog, really. So, what am I saying, here? "Yay, me!" to an extent, I guess . . . Whenever one accomplishs something, it never hurts to self-congratulate. Who else is going to say "yay!" anyway?
Perhaps, one day, people will matter to me . . . Perhaps.

That is All; Thank You.

A Perfunctory Life in Concentric Circles

It occurs to me, randomly, that the reason why the journal-style blog sensation doesn't sit well with me is simple: I spend most of my time keeping (close to) everything I inwardly think from being outwardly expressed. It's not so much that I "bottle up" my emotions or what have you, so much as I have a constant flow of thoughts that would serve no purpose other than to hurt and anger, or are plain pointless.
The key to being sarcastic, after all, is to make sure your knee-jerk reaction to things is to be a prick, and say the first thing to pop into your mind in a funny way.
Also, I don't subscribe to that school of psychology that says it's necessarily good for human relationships to communicate everything that you feel and think. It's a horrible idea as far as I'm concerned, in fact, because a ton of my (so-called) proto-ideas--thoughts of partial ideas that are had in leading to a whole idea--are really damn stupid, often enough.
Not to mention the large amount of trains of thought that end with, invariably, the statement, "It's their life," or, alternately, "They have the right to do as they want, in the end." Which is to say that I can guarantee you that I will probably make a snap judgment about your words or actions and simply write it off, unless it strikes me as valid; in which case, I may very well express it.
Which is part of the origin of this Blog: the expression of what I consider valuable thoughts.

In conclusion: nobody should want to peer inside my head. It's not a happy place. Especially when I'm listening to Stabbing Westward's Ungod album, as this band is, along with a few others, my "angry pleasure" music (It's kind of like guilty pleasure, but angry, get it--I'm a clever boy).

Adios.

and this is what you take from me

20TS04 (Impervious Quality)

And, now, with the twofold intent of having some new content for the oh-five, and to inspire myself to get new music (since I let myself fall into a habit of listening to the same thing, too often), I present to you, the readers, a list of my personal Twenty Songs of Preference for 2004, in no particular order:

1. Muse - Sing For Absolution
2. Queens of the Stone Age - Hangin' Tree
3. Audioslave - The Last Remaining Light
4. Tom Waits - Goin' Out West
5. Mindless Self Indulgence - Your Problem Now
6. Faith and the Muse - Running Up That Hill
7. Primus [with Tom Waits] - Coattails of a Dead Man
8. Pitchshifter - Eight Days
9. Nomeansno - The Day Everything Became Nothing
10. Fugazi - Break
11. Green Day - Dissapearing Boy
12. The Exies - My Goddess
13. Strung Out - Betrayal
14. Redcore - Free D
15. George Thorogood & The Destroyers - Who Do You Love?
16. Clint Mansell & The Kronos Quartet - The Hope Overture
17. Denis Leary - Asshole
18. Shellac - My Prayer To God
19. Kyuss - Rodeo
20. System of a Down - Aerials

There are a lot of songs I couldn't think of in the five minutes I wrote this up. Suffice it to say that these stuck out in my mind, and I should stop listening to them all so damn much.

Adios.