Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Life Soundtrack Vol. 4

Def Karaoke Jam: Use Your Illusion III


When DJ Tanner released DKJ vs. the World over a decade ago, it was compared to The Catcher in the Rye due to its emotionally poignant, perceptive apologue of one man’s comprehension of his human condition. See my analytical thesis on its impact (albeit edited of controversial content) here. (Look Ma, I made it…my work has been published.) Unbeknownst to us at the time, Tanner would become as reclusive as J.D. Salinger upon publishing his influential opus, silencing his powerful voice and not releasing any new material. Until now. The driving impetus for DKJ’s return is uncertain, though the economic recession and conflict with society have been posited. The UYI3 EP, being released exclusively through free Internet download due to Tanner’s contempt for “The System,” is DKJ’s Chinese Democracy. Stand up. Support the cause.

Drastus: Taphos


Dispel the images of KISS rejects prancing around the forest with swords and sickles. This is not your daddy’s black metal. Drastus is a one-man black metal band from France who produces a harsh, hypnotic attack in this five-song, twenty-minute jewel of white-noise riffing, savage snarls, and apocalyptic ambience. The cascading guitar mantra, “Columns of Decline Part I,” is an eerily beautiful prologue to the relentless blast beats and auditory blood spatter of “Part II,” which hits you square in the kisser like a Mongolian prostitute’s closed fist. You’re taken aback at first. You may find yourself being overcome by rage. But the more you think about it, the more you like it. Oh yeah, that’s the ticket.

Sleep: Dopesmoker


After Sleep received an advance from their record label, the band spent it all on ganja and the creation of this 63-minute long song that manages to transcend any and all limitations of the doom/stoner metal genre. The deal went up in smoke after Sleep refused to rework the massive metal monument and it ultimately led to the group’s demise. The misunderstood masterpiece eventually saw the light of day and, although I have heard about it over the years, I finally invested the time to purchase and listen to it. Imagine if Sabbath jammed out on “Sweet Leaf” for over an hour with heavier-than-Satan’s-balls sludge crushing everything in sight and droning vocals about weed pilgrims melting right into place. Disorienting tones and ethereal riffing that will vibrate your lungs, this is definitive doom. Drop out of life and follow the smoke.

The Mountain Goats: The Coroner’s Gambit


If it’s complex musical arrangements and industrial strength production you crave, keep it moving. If you seek depth of imagery and lyrical complexity, make yourself at home. The Coroner’s Gambit has officially engaged at least three other records in fisticuffs for the honor of being my favorite TMG album of the moment. Literate and emotive godsends like “Jaipur” and “Baboon” are dynamic parables set to rhythm and “Family Happiness” makes me fucking glad to be alive. John Darnielle structures stories in three-minutes like no other and is, quite possibly, the closest thing today’s transparent and corruptible world has to Robert Allen Zimmerman. There. I said it. I know I’ll regret it, but never mind that; get your hands on this album and choke on the tragedy behind the words. Darnielle has created such an overwhelming amount of material throughout the years and this is an excellent starting point before you eventually work your way to The Sunset Tree.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

The Living End (cont'd)

It is now time for a psychological analysis of the situational, environmental, social, and cognitive variables associated with spectator violence. I delved into this topic in my longitudinal study of why winning triggers fan aggression. First, we must consider the role of communication in establishing social norms within the crowd. Joking. This is neither the time nor the place for such tomfoolery. Keep your eye on the gentleman in the following video perched atop the traffic light. The next time I saw him, he was clutching his twisted arm and I swear I saw a tibia protruding from his leg. I apologize for the Cloverfield-esque footage.

Spoiler alert: After a group of amateurs' piss-poor attempt to tip over a Grand Am goes awry, one gentleman attempts to smash the back window with a few bionic elbows until the vehicle's large, angry owner interrupts. And it is quite possible that he earns his keep as a custodian. So watch out.

I hope you enjoyed my foray into investigative journalism. Clouds of smoke are still covering City Hall; however, the black cloud which loomed over the city for a quarter-century officially lifted on Wednesday, both literally and figuratively, when the Phillies resumed the rain-suspended Game 5 en route to the ultimate victory. I might return on Saturday with footage from the championship parade, which will undoubtedly make the recent Dracula parade look like a bunch of softheads with papier-mache bat wings strapped to their back, marching around Rittenhouse Square with yellow flags. Excuse me; I'm going to hug a few more strangers and tell them I love them.

The Living End

Finally. After 25 thick, salty years in which the only titles achieved in Philadelphia have been America's Fattest City, U.S. Murder Capital, and the ArenaBowl championship, Broad Street runs red with Phillies fans.





A quarter century seems minute when compared to the 125 years the Phillies have been playing baseball in Philadelphia (which is the longest of any franchise in American sports). During that stretch, the Phils won just one measley championship prior to last night. This is the prime opportunity for kids from the suburbs to cross the bridge, smash storefront windows, and light things on fire. Personally, I feel that tipping over stationary vehicles and setting them ablaze should be reserved for times like when your heavily-favored football team takes a dump on the field during the NFC Championship game and tries to pass it off as the West Coast Offense. Two years in a row. But I digress. These videos do not justly capture the celebration.



(To be continued.....)

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Both Trick and Treat Simultaneously

In 1988, German power metal powder keg, Helloween, delivered an intricate yet vitriolic assessment of modern bourgeois culture with the video interpretation of “I Want Out.” Inspired by Rousseau and other 18th Century political theorists, this articulate creation denounces virtue as a synthetic trait born from society whilst addressing the acute awareness of, and regard for, oneself in relation to others as a deeply detrimental psychological deformation. There is also a watermelon. Let us view this theatrical masterpiece together and achieve enlightenment.



Press play…now.

There seems to be an excessive amount of waiters meandering about an empty restaurant. And if they aren’t catering to the feather-haired gentleman in the aquamarine jacket, what the hell are they doing? This place is overstaffed and the manager needs to punch someone’s timecard post haste. The dude at the table is obviously hungry. He opens his mouth and exposes a long, barren hallway; a gateway to his soul perhaps. I hope you’re ready for a wild ride ‘cause there ain’t no turning back!

Nothing like singing while you’re being stuffed into a creepy wooden coffin. He’s probably not that concerned, however, as there is no dirt in sight—nor is there a jackhammer to pierce the abandoned warehouse’s concrete floors—and it does not appear to be an airtight receptacle. I believe a third grader with a learning disability constructed that thing in the shed out yonder. Seriously, once these bullies leave, he could punch through those rickety old planks and run like the dickens.

Okay, in which socket is this guy plugging his electric pink Flying V amongst the desert ruins? And is that a “Frankie Say Relax” shirt under his black trench coat?

0:49 — Yes, I do believe that was a watermelon flying across the screen.

They want out. They want to stick their heads out of the windows of moving cars like Labradors. They want to prance about the flatlands with red capes, jump out of the shallow ends of swimming pools, and stand in front of factories. They just want to live.

Reversing down the hallway. It’s all over. No, wait; we’re going back! Now the band members are circled around Kai Hansen, pushing and shoving him. Wasn’t trapping him in a casket enough? This guy must be a real prick. I told you he’d escape from that paltry piece of shit.

Up the esophagus again. He belches, dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and—really? Again? The first two times blew my mind, don’t get me wrong, but isn’t this just a bit gratuitous?

Fans? Concert scene? What? Why?

3:13 — Yes, I do believe that guy is toting a vacuum cleaner. Look carefully. I thought it was a rubber snake at first, but it is in fact a vacuum.

I swear on all that is holy, if they do the trippy camerawork with the mouth and the hallway again… There’s the watermelon! It breaks! And so?

With those two simple words, Helloween invites the viewer to ponder the notion of a truth inside of the evolving self; a declaration of man's existence in which he defines himself and the world in his own subjectivity, wandering between choice, freedom, and existential angst, yet at the same time recognizing the absurdity of trying to find meaning in the universe. Well played. Kinda makes you want to eat Basmati rice and read The Myth of Sisyphus, doesn't it? Well played indeed.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

The World Powered by Fishbulb Energy

If I have ascertained anything from cinema, it is that people in the ‘80s often peered into a mirror, put on a pair of wayfarer sunglasses and snapped their fingers at about eye-level. This mating ritual for teens and young adults— a rite of passage, of sorts— often directly prefaced a premeditated rendezvous with a female. At times, this act may transpire amidst a montage of cool behavior which may or may not reach an abrupt end when the subject’s mother and/or girl over whom he is fawning impede on his privacy while he is playing air guitar in his skivvies. It should also be noted that, during this byzantine decade, it was quite commonplace for a rich father to pull aside his daughter’s middle-class boyfriend, whip out his checkbook and inquire as to how much it would cost to leave his daughter alone, to which the ragamuffin would usually profess his unabashed love and affection for her before peeling away in his Trans Am. High school parties generally consisted of students from every social circle and grade level. Even lycanthropes capable of shapeshifting into wolf-like creatures were tolerated given they car-surf on the roofs of vans and have a wicked jumpshot.

I have learned from— or been influenced by— such outlets significantly throughout the years. I have suckled at the teat of the one-eyed electrical matriarch in the age of mass media overstimulation and it has molded my interpretation of reality. I possess no genuine beliefs, nor am I capable of formulating any unique thoughts or ideas. Instead, I recite hackneyed lines from movies and reference television shows to amuse others. Even commercials are incorporated into my daily discourse. You know me. Yes, you do. I’m that guy at work who quotes Family Guy all day. Still doesn’t ring a bell? Maybe I should talk like Borat, would that help? I am the culmination of all social and cultural stimuli that has preceded me; the product of packaged simulacra sold as a commodity in a Baudrillardian dystopia where all are compared on an insubstantial basis. I am considerably less than the sum of my parts.

So when you arrive home from work ahead of schedule with a bouquet of pastel roses, lilies, carnations and daisy poms for your wife, whom you expect to be worn ragged from dusting the dining room table and cleaning baby vomit from whatever the baby vomits on, and you find the old ball and chain diddling her love button to the image of a greased up Latino gentleman with a horsecock on the computer screen, it is quite difficult for the brain to process. Primetime dramas have partially prepared me for the possibility of catching the wife in bed with the poolboy, but not pleasuring herself to ethnic internet porn most likely marketed toward homosexual men. I stretch my waistband and take a gander at the mushroom in a patch of grass hiding beneath my trousers. How often has she pictured Enrique Iglesias while I played with her nipples? How many times has she finished herself off with a black dildo in the bathroom after we engaged in intercourse? I bet if I opened the cistern there would be some rubber dong modeled after Andre Rison’s penis floating in there. My friend once told me that Andre Rison had to tape his genitals to his leg while playing football because his junk was so big. He was probably full of shit.

What the fuck would Jack Bauer do in this situation?

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Unlocking the Seventh Seal

Chinese Democracy will be released on November 23, 2008.

This just in: Chicken Little reports the fucking sky is falling.

There’s an ancient Chinese proverb that goes something like: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 137 times, go fuck yourself, man; You come here talking that bullshit again, I’ll chop your soul off. How very apropos. After years of cryptic delays, we are now expected to be able to purchase Axl’s 14-year, $13 million opus just in time for the 2008 holiday season...exclusively at big-box chain store Best Buy. Huh?

Do you know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby. The Geek Squad is totally going to hook up your PC! In the jungle; welcome to the jungle, I wanna see you shopping for DVDs alphabetically by genre.

This marketing strategy hardly sounds odd. Who but Axl would launch a world tour spanning five continents—fragmented from 2001 to 2007—to promote an album which will now allegedly drop just prior to the commencement of 2009? During this strange traveling circus, Axl no-showed a concert date to watch a regular season Lakers game on TV (leading to the second mini-riot and subsequent cancellation of the 2002 North American tour), scuffled with an effeminate, middle-aged fashion designer, and spent the night in a Stockholm jail after biting the leg of a hotel security guard. Meanwhile, Chinese Democracy had become the punch line for any project that has been procrastinated or failed to meet its most tentative deadline. I overslept yesterday and my wife snickered that “waking up is your Chinese Democracy.” Now, after five different producers, a revolving door of band members, and the recent reports that new GN'R tunes will be debuted through a video game and a Leonardo DiCaprio movie, there is an increased likelihood that Chinese Democracy will in fact precede democracy in China.

Regardless of the innumerable cockteases and false alarms, there is literally nothing that will prevent me from purchasing this CD like a schnook immediately upon its release. Even if that means I have to spend my 15 dollars at an underground Al Qaeda bunker in Afghanistan to get it. Even if I have to wait for the FBI to declassify top secret info on the JFK assassination first. That’s how pathetic and brainwashed I am. Nevertheless, I won’t believe this latest ruse until the liner notes are in my right hand, a Best Buy receipt is in my left, and I’m sipping my free Dr. Pepper through a straw with one of the many songs I have already heard blaring from my stereo.

If this actually happens, anything is possible. I shall engage the devil himself in a snowball fight next to the furnace in Hell. Who knows? This can result in a spiritual awakening on a global scale. An acceleration of consciousness shall transpire. Solids and liquids will become plasmas. But if this twisted testament to self-absorption and rock n’ roll amour-propre doesn’t make Appetite for Destruction sound like Jesse & the 8th Street Kidz, the poles shall reverse and the great King of the Mongols cometh again. Or so Axl might believe. Perhaps 12/21/12 would be a more fitting release date.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Season of the Witch

When I die, bury my mortal remains in one of these bastards so that I may communicate with the gods electronically. May I have access to e-mail in purgatory, a global positioning system to navigate my way to Valhalla, and 3G technology to signify that I am plugged in, which, in turn, will naturally impress St. Peter and thus improve my prospects of ascending to Shangri-La . Nothing says “I have absorbed cultural messages and I am able to reprocess and communicate them back” like a touchscreen coffin. I will wait outside the funeral home in sub-arctic temperatures for three days to reserve mine. In death, this product shall validate my life. I can’t wait to die.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Life Soundtrack Vol. 3

The Axis of Perdition: Deleted Scenes from the Transition Hospital


This isn’t just music, this is an experience. A twisted, brainsick experience capable of warping minds and destroying central nervous systems. The Axis of Perdition, a deliciously sinister dark ambient/industrial black metal outfit with the propensity to produce the sonic equivalent of the Rapture in full reverse, has created the auditory parallel to a horror movie known as the Transition Hospital where tortured screams permeate the air while buzzing, hissing, slamming doors, and sometimes unidentifiable noises arise from the darkness. Confine yourself in a pitch black room, put on your headphones, crank up the volume and let your imagination do the rest. Horrific, haunting, and avant-garde, this is my favorite piece of art I have crossed paths with in many moons.

Opeth: Still Life


I saw these symphonic masters of death prog at the Troc recently and, as expected, I was blown away. Opeth mixes metal with acoustic harmonies, ambient euphonies and kinetic shifts, relying less on the blast beat assault mode typical of the genre. Vocals range from grunting death growls to harrowingly beautiful clean singing. Trying to explain Still Life in a single paragraph is a daunting task similar to reviewing Sun Tzu’s The Art of War or Kafka’s The Metamorphosis in a few simple sentences. In other words, it’s really good. So are My Arms, Your Hearse and Ghost Reveries. I popped in some Opeth to get myself stoked for the show a few weeks ago and the discs are still in the forefront of my rotation. Vocalist Mikael Akerfeldt also fronts Swedish death metal supergroup, Bloodbath, which is one of the most bewitchingly truculent and prodigious bands going today. Speaking of which, “Weak Aside” is actually cumming in my ear pussy as I write this. They are so good, they deserve their own write up, so I’m going to cease my gushing now and delay my praise until next time.

Yakuza: Transmutations


Dynamic, eclectic, and experimental, Yakuza blends doom-laden post-metal with progressive midnight jazz, Eastern influences, and elements of world fusion. Any time a saxophone is incorporated into metal, things can get interesting. Case in point: “Egocide.” If King Crimson and Mastodon begat a child, it would be christened Yakuza. And I would listen.

This Will Destroy You: Young Mountain


Sometimes I just can’t get enough of those post-rock instrumental bands. This Will Destroy You’s debut EP is an emotional juggernaut of beatitude that has perfected that whole soft-to-loud thing many of us have grown to love with a wee bit of electronica added to the mix for good measure.

Restavrant: Returns to the Tomb of Guiliano Medidici


I was recently impressed by this alternative country/electro bluegrass duo from the hometown of Stone Cold Steve Austin who are worth checking out if they come through your town. Don’t be alarmed if the drum kit appears to be erected from old Plymouth hubcaps and other people’s garbage held together by vice grips from your seventh grade shop class. That’s just how they roll. The cymbal made of expired license plates is the straw that stirs the drink. Suck on that, John Bonham.

Coffins: Buried Death


Japan isn’t exactly fertile soil where metal artists sprout and flourish (see: Loudness—nice try, guys; thanks for playing). This sludgy doom-death trio’s latest release, on the other hand, is the most imposing force to rise from Tokyo since Godzilla, and the sight of that big lizard smashing skyscrapers isn’t half as pernicious as the pounding rhythm of “Under the Stench.” More predictable than polished, Coffins isn’t reinventing the genre, but anyone who remotely yearns for plodding, grisly old school style metal that emits the fetor of decomposing flesh and 1987, welcome to the holy land. Perhaps my favorite band right…now. Sometimes simplicity begets excellence.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Heavens to Murgatroyd

Meet Baghead, the bastardized lovechild of boredom and misanthropy in the workplace.

Perhaps he’s a mistake— he certainly wasn’t planned (and I‘m fairly certain my employer does not compensate me for sketching such morose gobbledy-gook during work hours)— but, instead of stashing him in a trash bag with soiled cotton swabs and rotting bananas, abandoning him on the side of the highway or discarded in an alleyway dumpster, I decided to keep him. I shall train him in the art of seduction until he is old enough to join the military and be sent off to kill whichever nation of brown people is our nemesis at the time. When he asks about his mother, I will tell him that she was mauled by a lion at the Six Flags drive-through safari. Either that or she was kidnapped by primates after disregarding the “do not feed the monkeys” signs and providing the chimps with Cool Ranch Doritos on the roof of my car. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I suppose.

(Click to enlarge)

Friday, September 26, 2008

The Highs, the Lows, and Everything In Between

Sifting through the archives in a creative standstill, I came across a rough draft of the introductory chapter to Life of Riley. Read it, relate it to your life, and weep. That’s it, let it out. Everyone needs a good cry now and then…

Isn’t it funny how I cried at birth and now I laugh at death? I was once overflowing with potential. But that cup fell over and shattered on the floor. Then I stepped on the shards and cut my foot.

What ever happened to all those dreams and ambitions? They must have disintegrated somewhere between my first shot of Jagermeister and my first bong hit. Six years ago I was fresh out of college, ready to sneak attack the “real world.” That bastard must have seen me coming from a mile away. I threw a right hook. My opponent ducked and countered with a massive uppercut. I am still trying to recover, waiting for the referee to stop the fight.

It’s difficult to accept the fact that you are startlingly average. Mediocre. Ordinary. Run of the mill. After six years in sales the only thing I have realized is that I fucking hate people. In my opinion, human beings are the most loathsome, nauseating form of life on God’s green earth. Sure, we can speak and formulate coherent thoughts. Well, most of us, at least. But the people I encounter on a daily basis make me wince at the thought of reproducing. The thought of having sex with one of these creatures is no longer appealing. These women disgust me.

Believe it or not, I was once a carefree bon vivant who reveled in ‘80s glam rock-style hedonism. Until one day the hands of time slapped me across the face. I came to the jarring realization that there is more to life than getting drunk, having sex, and hanging out with my friends. Everyone I associated myself with was being abducted by maturity, one person at a time. Before I knew, it wasn’t cool anymore to get inebriated and wake up with bloody elbows and dried vomit on your chest, stark naked except for a pair of black dress socks. All of a sudden it was cool to save money to buy a house or an engagement ring. All of a sudden it was cool to lead a monotonous life, waking up at the crack of dawn, returning home in the evening, and going to sleep early. Rinse and repeat. Everyday for the next thirty or forty years.

I am a product of my environment. Another free-thinking mind that succumbed to the peer-pressure of the impatient, materialistic, super-competitive beast that is the Northeast.

My life has reached its apex and it’s all downhill from here. That’s a hard pill to swallow though I can’t say I didn’t expect it. I’ve been told that the key to success is to find something you enjoy doing and incorporate it into your career, but once a free man is enslaved by the corporate sharecroppers, he becomes a bitter malcontent who no longer finds gratification in anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. I still somewhat enjoy sleeping, drinking, and getting high, but the law of diminishing returns has set in and return on investment has steadily declined over the years. Growing up, my only aspiration in life was to be a rock star, but certain obstacles got in the way. For starters, I can’t sing for shit. Throw in the fact that I never learned how to play a musical instrument and, for some reason, keeping a band together is rather difficult. For shit’s sake, I occasionally deliver pizzas on weekends to supplement my income.

I could have never imagined a more insignificant existence in my lamest nightmares.

So, yes, I laugh in the face of death. I’m not tough or macho by any means. I’ve thought about suicide, but I don’t have the balls. Fear of commitment, I guess. But if I go to work tomorrow, the elevator cables snap and I plummet twenty-two floors to my demise, I won’t be screaming on the way down. If the tractor-trailer in the lane next to me jackknifes, rolls over and flattens my little piece of tin, at least I’ll go out listening to “November Rain.”

But today I have been issued a fate far worse than death.

I’m dwelling on my mediocrity when it hits me like a kick to the abdomen from a third-degree black belt. I try to fight it, but even the fly on the windshield can tell by my contorted facial expressions that this is a battle I cannot win. I unbuckle my seatbelt. I even undo the top button on my pants in an attempt to relieve the slightest bit of pressure. I find myself Lamaze breathing like a pregnant woman minutes away from giving birth.

It’s at this point you realize, and actually come to grips with the fact, that your only option may very well be shitting your pants.

Now all of those desecrated public toilets you could never fathom letting your sweet cheeks touch seem like a thin slice of heaven. It wouldn’t even cross my mind to line the seat with toilet paper first. Honest to God, I would give my left pinky for this feeling to just disappear.

There is nothing –nothing– worse than being stuck in a car and having your insides torn apart by the vile cretin known as Diarrhea. I’ve talked to gunshot victims, heroin addicts going through withdrawal, even prisoners of war, and none of them have denied this. I’m moaning and squirming around so much, the people in the car next to me must think I have a lady friend giving me a hummer.

It’s amazing what people take for granted. Toilets always seem to be there when you need them. They’re never too far away. Unless you’re driving down a lonely highway. Or, in my case, rush hour traffic. Suddenly, all of your worries vanish. Financial problems? Trouble at work? You caught your old lady sleeping around? Poof! They all disappear. In that short eternity, the only thing you can think about is clenching your sphincter muscles as long as you possibly can. If you lose concentration for a second, you lose a pair of undies.

(To be continued)

Monday, September 22, 2008

Bodhidharma Eye Gouge

Footage of yours truly receiving a hand-poked daruma tattoo from Japanese tebori master, Horitoshi. Respect the culture.



I would like to express my gratitude to the DJ for enhancing the spiritual experience by playing some Tracy Chapman. (sarcasm)

Unfortunately, the soundtrack was not as fulfilling as the actual experience itself. Listening to "Rock and Roll All Nite" whilst watching an Asian gentleman stabbing my leg with a sharp stick probably isn't the ideal composition, but be appreciative that I willfully omitted the video footage on which the solo work of Bret Michaels overtakes the rhythmical sound of needles puncturing and leaving my skin. A good time was had by all.

The capillary action of opening the skin is different with tebori than with an electric tattoo machine and it actually tends to do less damage to the tissue. The hand method is not common in the U.S.; there are maybe a handful of artists that can do it. It is a 400+ year old method and a very serious practice in Japan. It is a great, long process in which the artist serves as a master's apprentice for many years. It's not like in America where you can buy the equipment from a magazine and go scar people up. The artist must have exceptionally great skill, technique, and control. Getting a tattoo from a tebori master like Horitoshi is considered an honor.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Sword of Omens, Give Me Sight Beyond Sight

Cultural hegemony and high school History classes have socialized Americans like myself to believe that the Puritans gallantly fled England due to immense religious intolerance from a ruthless king who would detain his own citizens without charging them a crime and subject them to cruel and unusual castigation. Thus, our fortitudinous forefathers sojourned across the pond to found a utopian society in which the ideals and beliefs of all would be welcomed as a collective part of humanity; a society where many of the norms would be considered radical deviations from those established in their former homeland. The Land of the Free. The Home of the Brave.

Yet, like many oppressed peoples, the Puritans soon became the oppressors. It began with the mass assassination of Native Americans and the Trail of Tears, continued with the enslavement of Africans, and persists today with the general marginalization of all people of color. It seems America's forefathers never wished to create the society their idealistic doctrine implied, but rather create a social order in which they reigned so they could impose their ideas on others. Naturally, this behavior was socialized in their children and their children's children until we ended up with our current society full of inequalities and double standards; a society in which the judges issue a death sentence for any deviation from the norm.

There’s a saying, you know—an old one like they always are—that implies life is circular. Or, in other words, karma is legit. Whether or not you believe old adages or subscribe to samsara and philosophies of the like is insignificant. Deep down, everyone who never talks out of turn and always uses the proper fork houses a self-contained social deviant too lazy to alter the comfortable routine of their lives. But what becomes of that caged beast? Does it die of starvation confined in its tiny cell, surrounded by its own feces? Does it break free from its shackles and unleash havoc at the masquerade party? Or does it just make brief appearances in remote locations from time to time like Sasquatch, getting stoned and shamelessly writing senseless drivel?

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Life Soundtrack Vol. 2

I have grown weary of entrapping unsuspecting telemarketers and CVS cashiers in one-sided conversations about the Mountain Goats’ Alpha series and how Cryptopsy’s None So Vile is a benchmark in technical death metal; thus I shall turn to my online outlet and imagine there is someone reading this that actually cares which artists and albums get me as excited as Robert De Niro flipping his sticky fingers through the latest issue of Black Beauties. Here is a smidgen of what blares out of my car’s one remaining functional speaker and prevents me from driving head-on into a telephone pole on the way to work:

Blood Ceremony: Blood Ceremony


Folk-infused doom psych occult rock self-described as the following:
We're anti-war, but pro-horror. Standing before the crimson altar, our minds melted as we gazed into the cosmic eye. Now we slay the stages of the universe with heavy riffs, paranoia-inducing trills and '70s fills.
Honestly, why even try to expand on that? I am really at a loss when trying to describe this band. ‘70s style dark prog with staccato rock flute, heavy blues-rock riffs, and psychedelic organ work, tempered with brooding melodies and runic, funereal lyrics resurrecting the vibe of Pentagram and Black Widow. How’s that? Fuck the world; I love it with all my heart.

Agoraphobic Nosebleed: Frozen Corpse Stuffed with Dope


What’s a band to do when they can’t find a drummer who can emulate a gas-operated rapid-fire machine gun with a revolving ten-chamber drum infinitely fed by a metal disintegrating link belt of armor-piercing, incendiary ammunition? Enlist the help of a drum machine on steroids blasting out a blizzard of 100,000 beats per minute. Regardless of the absence of a human drummer, ANb is a relentless grind force. Track titles including “Bitch’s Handbag Full of Money,” “Kill Theme for American Apeshit,” “Unwashed Cock,” and “Grandmother with AIDS” pale in comparison to dissonant lyrics which revolve around drugs, violence, and whores.

Pig Destroyer: Phantom Limb


Grindcore gets its point across and does it fast. It is a subgenre that contains elements of hardcore, punk, death, black, and thrash metal resulting in a raucous sound that is driven by vocals consisting of guttural growls and high-pitched screams, blast beats, and down-tuned, heavily distorted guitars capable of making a paraplegic rise from his chair and flail his body about wildly. For many, it is difficult to differentiate between minute-long songs that bleed together and adhere to the same brutal formula. Phantom Limb, however, combines the traditional short grind songs that clock in at about one minute with longer, more intricate songs that are three or four minutes in length. There is also a surprising amount of melody with killer riffs and—dare I say—groovy breaks and tempo changes. Pig Destroyer’s discordant mixture of egregious noise can be therapeutic in the grand scheme of things and if you take the time to read the lyric sheet, you can trail a yarn of a man who exhumes the corpse of his dead girlfriend, cuts off her hand, and attempts to have a relationship with the severed limb. Sadly, his plan is not fruitful and he ultimately commits hara-kiri. I am in love with this album.

Mogwai: Young Team


Sometimes I feel like listening to Possessed’s Seven Churches. Other times, I crave something more ambient. This is the musical equivalent of the aurora borealis. While most categorize Young Team under the umbrella of post-rock, I am more apt to proclaim it this generation’s Birth of the Cool. Eleven years after its release, Mogwai’s debut remains one of the most perfect albums to hit my eardrums and “Mogwai Fear Satan” remains the only 16+ minute song that never grows monotonous. Hence, I consider Mogwai a jam band for intelligent people who shower at least every other day. If you have been dwelling in an underground bunker in the Kondoa region of Tanzania for the past decade, I also recommend checking out Mr. Beast, an equally mesmerizing album which may not receive as many critical accolades, but may very well be my personal favorite.

Sarcofago: I.N.R.I.


When many hear black metal, they conjure thoughts of misanthropic, luciferian music recorded in a cave in Belarus or some grim ice fjord in northern Norway. Brazil’s Sarcofago, on the other hand, are one of South America’s greatest exports, which is saying a lot as the continent has produced cocaine and Adriana Lima. Regardless of their origin, Sarcofago’s death metal fury, punk attitude, polemic ideology, and corpsepaint aesthetics were extremely influential to the second wave of black metal in the early ‘90s. Whereas I am far from a cornerstone in the black metal “scene,” I surely can appreciate bludgeoning metal when I hear it. “Nightmare”, for example, is black metal-fused thrash with vomiting judgment day vocals. This is not for the weak of heart. I’m not even sure if it’s for me. But, yeah, I dig it.
Upon completion of this level, one can graduate to Burzum’s Det Som Engang Var. Fare thee well on your journey.

16 Horsepower: Low Estate


Classify it however you’d like, 16 Horsepower are alt-country messiahs with everything modern music lacks—conviction, passion, banjos, accordions, layered vocals, and the fear of God. Plus, sometimes it makes for a strong spiritual balance when combined with Sarcofago’s growling about sodomizing biblical figures. Honestly, I’m not sure whether the lyrics are religious or sexual, both or neither; 16 Horsepower produces brooding backwoods rockabilly neo-goth with a dash of Jim Morrison that sets them apart from their contemporaries. I can listen to the opening track alone on repeat for my entire work day and the rest of the album is just as formidable. I swear to god.

On a side note, I went to the used CD store last weekend, an establishment that instantly earned cool points as soon as I opened the door and heard the soundtrack to Lucio Fulci’s Zombie playing, which was followed by the Body Count classic, “Cop Killer.” I’ll return soon enough with another unnecessary update in the near future. Patience is a virtue, my friends.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

I Sip Lithium from the Nape of a Glass As Is Standard Operating Procedure

The old lady and I recently gathered all of our worldly possessions and compressed them into every knapsack, duffel bag, tattered cardboard box, and Hefty Hefty Cinch Sak we could get muster, taking our traveling gypsy show on the road yet again. Our new abode rests in a more affable locale a mere fifteen miles from our prior residence where inbred mutants who blare “I Love Rock n’ Roll” by Joan Jett in the mid-afternoon live above people like me and constantly use my washing machine despite numerous threats of physical harm. No longer is my slumber disrupted at odd hours by an angry neighbor beating down the upstairs door because he doesn’t approve of the creepy fucker’s penchant for black prostitutes. Apparently, Negros aren’t permitted in that posh environment, or so says the lusus naturae upstairs. Quite frankly, the dude should have got clocked in the jaw just for denying his half-breed son a dental visit once in his life.

So, yeah. The other day I was exploring my new terrain in search for the local market where I could exchange American currency for fresh produce, frozen chicken, and the yogurt that comes with the crushed cookies and/or Nestle Crunch pieces to mix in and create a delicious treat when I stumbled upon a street lined with log cabins. I also needed to get cat food. But to see so many homes constructed with logs was relatively intriguing. One mile later, I came across this:



What does this cryptic message mean? And who are the zealots who devoted the time and effort to design a bed sheet banner to brazenly portray this message to passers-by? I mulled it over for a few days. Is this some kind of anti-Christian bulletin? Some sort of twisted anti-war cryptogram? The apocalyptic warning of a crackpot soothsayer? I was entertaining myself imagining the possibilities, but I had to knock on the strangers’ door, introduce myself, and express my interest in the sheet tied to their trees alluding to some ambiguous disaster. A woman hesitantly opened the door and looked me up and down as if I had just crawled out of the primordial ooze.

“Hi, I’m Sparky,” I said. “I moved down the street a week or so ago and I pass your house everyday. I am just so curious about that sign. Church Chernobyl…what’s that all about?”

She asked me where I moved and I explained in greater detail. She appeared more comfortable once she established I am legitimate quasi-neighbor with a genuine interest in her cause as opposed to some big city rapist who wants to steal her identity and sell her jewels for money to buy meth.

“So you hate the church, huh?” I asked. That’s when she educated me on the brouhaha stirred up by the adjacent United Methodist Church which can be seen from her front yard, thus presenting the prime opportunity for her to shake her fist at the building while explaining her hostility. Get a load of this shit. The church has embarked on a deal with T-Mobile to install a cellular tower base in the church’s steeple. As a result, churchgoers have become concerned about the health risks associated with this business venture, going so far as to enlist independent industry experts in the field of RF radiation to analyze the decision. The upside of this is members of the congregation can now communicate with God via text message during mass. I suggested to the woman that the church should open a Starbucks in the front of the chapel and the pastor can bless the Frapuccinos. Coca-Cola can buy ad space on the back of the pews and they can probably get a couple extra bucks from Carl’s Jr. if the pastor wears the fast food chain’s logo on the front of his pulpit robe. She found absolutely no humor in my musings. Not even a little bit. Nothing cute or clever at all.

Remember: Jesus contacts all his homies on the Sidekick 3, so you should, too! Hallowed be thy rollover minutes. Repent or perish.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Non Sequitur III: Non Sequitur's Revenge



Dear National Enquirer,

Want to know what Chef Matt from Season Four of Hell’s Kitchen is doing these days? Seeing 10:20 PM showings of The House Bunny with a storehouse of 5x7” matte prints ready to autograph for his adoring fans or anyone who recognizes him.


“He takes them with him everywhere.” — Chef Matt’s slightly embarrassed lady friend

This makes the time I was waiting in line for the men’s room in front of Bam Margera seem totally inconsequential. Then again, I did intentionally urinate all over the toilet seat with the hope that Bam needed to take a dump and thus, upon the sight of my whiz, would be required to uncomfortably hover over the can as feces excreted from his brown pucker. Since there was no urinal in this restroom, if he did not have to go #2, he would have no choice but to cross the treacherous terrain of pee-pee surrounding the pot and thus track my liquid waste onto the floor mats of his impractical look-at-me blue Lamborghini.
Eat your hearts out, bitches.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Step Into the Light

Renowned for its saturated colors, sensual images, and an unconventional use of space and scale, Yngwie Malmsteen’s “I’ll See the Light Tonight” is at once tangible and boundless. An epic exploration of visual representation, its validity is concrete, yet open to psychological interpretation. Thus it should come as no surprise that the shredmaster’s ingenious production is the fifth video to be decorated in this sanctimonious cock rock adytum.

“I’ll See the Light Tonight” examines, questions, and re-evaluates old and new ideas on such matters as the imitation of nature, the function of tradition, the problem of abstraction, the validity of perspective, and the analysis of expression, all of which reveal that pictorial representation is far from being a straightforward issue. Malmsteen applies the findings of experimental science to the understanding of art, yet retains a sense of wonder at the subtle relationships involved in the process of creation. He also battles sword-wielding demons and fire-breathing dragons with arpeggio chords.


Behold the alpha and omega of power metal videos, boasting the ideal combination of over-rehearsed strutting, around-the-back guitar spinning, and outrageous imagery.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Burn Bridges, Stay Warm

Ken Lomax tiptoes the fine line between genius and insanity ever so gracefully. He’s a man who lives like he drives – a hundred and ten miles per hour with the seatbelt unbuckled, blasting Frank Zappa’s “Watermelon in Easter Hay” or something of the ilk, with a giant Styrofoam cup filled with Glenfiddich resting between his legs. Always a loner, Ken avoids long-term relationships on all fronts and deems the institution of marriage old hat. He considers himself an advanced species that has evolved past basic, primitive needs such as sex, ego, and emotional attachment. That is for beasts, he claims. He personally performs all maintenance on his car and can’t fathom the notion of another man tending his garden, yet he handles currency with tweezers and avoids coins like the Plague. His trusty bottle of anti-bacterial soap has become an extension of himself, always toting the lotion in case he must engage in the barbaric ritual of shaking hands with strangers.

Like I said, Ken is a genius and, like the old saying goes, most geniuses are misunderstood. He graduated Summa Cum Laude from an Ivy League college with a degree in Engineering. From there, he received a full ride to a prestigious medical school where he graduated at the top of his class, though he claims to have never been interested in pursuing a career in the medical field. According to Ken, he took the ride to obtain a more thorough understanding of the human body’s mortality and possibly prolong what he believes will be a short existence on this planet in terms of the modern-day life expectancy of man.

“I’m a trial run; the first of my kind off the conveyor belt,” he once said. “Remember when the hybrid cars first came out? They were ugly, crude, shoddy pieces of shit. But eventually the manufacturers perfected them. Now every company has multiple hybrid models. I’m not built for a long life. I’m lucky if I see forty…but I’m okay with that.”

Nowadays, Ken spends the majority of his time on the road, hopping red-eye flights from state to state, earning his income monitoring the development and implementation of the high-tech software brand over which he presides. He spends his free hours in hotel rooms, finishing New York Times crossword puzzles and bottles of Johnnie Walker in record times. He always packs his own sheets and linens and refuses any maid services wherever he goes. The middle-aged, upper-crust conservatives whom he encounters along his journeys are bewildered by this specimen, having never before experienced a foul-mouthed, hard-drinking yankee with the brain waves of Einstein on psilocybin. He enjoys getting his associates shitfaced off incessant shots of tequila and gin. If they refuse his generosity, he acts offended and disrespected, using his reputation in the industry to coerce them. Those who black out, unable to handle the large volumes of liquor, are often subject to odd experiments. He practiced his med school expertise on one intoxicated colleague in particular, wrapping his entire leg in a plaster cast after a long night of binge drinking. When the rube came to the next morning, he told him that he was rushed to the hospital after falling down the stairs and breaking his femur. If he’s feeling especially giddy, he’ll hide forks, scissors, or even action figures beneath the plaster to add some pain to the area and intensify the effect. He’ll wish the gentleman a speedy recovery and vanish to Gary, Indiana or Jackson, Mississippi or wherever the job requires him to travel next. Shortly thereafter, a licensed medical professional will examine the victim’s injury and discover nothing but a healthy lower extremity and a six-inch Jake “The Snake” Roberts figurine with a rotating torso for delivering a nasty clothesline to his plastic opponents. This has become his calling card.

Well, maybe his tightrope walk between psychiatric labels isn’t that graceful. But he emits an unexplainable electricity wherever he goes. If you were to meet him, you’d know exactly what I’m talking about. As soon as he walks through the door, everyone in the room instantly knows that this guy’s some kind of different. I felt this electricity for the first time in the seventh grade when he gave me my first cigarette – a Virginia Slims Ultra Light he confiscated from his mother’s purse – and taught me how to inhale in the woods behind middle school.

It’s not ironic that the same feeling permeates the air on this fateful autumn night.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

If It Bleeds, It Leads

When Jesus comes back, he is going to be mobbed by paparazzi. Unless, of course, L.C. and Heidi are spotted shopping together on Rodeo Drive at the same time the Messiah returns to raise the dead, judge the world, abolish evil, and rule in righteousness for eternity with an iron scepter. In which case, it will be quite a laborious task for society to determine which event is more consequential.

This is how I foresee the news of the Second Coming being delivered exclusively by TMZ.com:

Main Headline: Amy Winehouse Hospitalized After Smoking Poison Sumac.
Subheader: Christ Returns, Mistaken for Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes.

This is assuming that Angelina Jolie did not recently give birth to the Prodigal Son, which is an exceptionally distinct possibility considering the media fare her latest additions to her multicultural menagerie have received.

Blessed art thou whom are able to transcend greed and the cravings of immediate satisfaction. May Mother Angie watch over we victims of first-world consumerism and protect us against a culture that deifies quasi-celebrities with no discernable talent. The meek are still waiting to inherit the earth from such physically and financially beautiful luminaries and, until that day comes, they shall transmogrify their psychologically oppressive environment into the Church of Jolie-Pitt.

Society is an association of institutions held together by a set of artificial values. Your prestige in society is measured by the degree to which you choose to conform to its values. Deviation is met with indignation. Consider the values of your society. Deviation is essential.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Life Soundtrack Vol. 1

Sweet skeletal remains of D.B. Cooper decomposing under my neighbor’s backyard swing set, do my eyes deceive me? An update regarding music that isn’t an in-depth analysis of a time-honored hair metal video? I’ve been devoting more time to experiencing a gallimaufry of live music—ranging from D.C. area doom metal to the most bestial death metal to ever come out of Austria— and, at the risk of transposing this misanthropic mecca of madness into generic blog # 479532, I cannot fight the urge to inform you of the audio pastiche currently tickling my eardrum with wet pinky fingers made of music.

Witchfinder General: Death Penalty




When I hear the term doom metal, the first band I think of is Black Sabbath. Obviously. They’re also the second, third, fourth, and fifth band that comes to mind. The sixth is Trouble. But the seventh is Witchfinder General. Besides staking claim to one of the greatest album covers in the history of recorded sound, Death Penalty makes me want to smash a hobo on the noggin with his flask of Canadian Mist. Its primitive style sounds like it was recorded on a boom box in a Stourbridge garage over a twelve hour time period. In a utopian society, every jock douche bag that claimed to be a Metallica fan in 1993 who didn’t own a copy of this album would have been molested extra hard by his wrestling coach as “Enter Sandman” played over the weight room’s loudspeaker.

The Mountain Goats: All Hail West Texas



Lo-fi urban folk at its finest, this album actually was recorded on a boom box (a Panasonic RX-FT500 to be precise). I know it was released way back in 2002 and, although I regretfully admit that I was not as familiar with the Mountain Goats’ catalogue six and a half years ago, I haven’t been able to remove this CD from my rotation in a biblical week. The hiss of the Panasonic creates a backing track to John Darnielle’s adept lyrics creating a colorful tapestry that could bring a smile to my face even if La Chupacabra killed my dog and left its carcass on my porch drained of blood. Put All Hail in your stereo and listen to it for a couple days. If you don’t love it, start to question the existence of your soul. Tallahassee, also released in 2002, is a marvelous record as well, despite the fact that it was recorded in an actual studio with an actual band.

Valient Thorr: Immortalizer






Finally, a band whose members look like the bikers from the “now yous can’t leave” scene in A Bronx Tale. The riffs are melodic and Thorr doesn’t give you any ballads or bullshit. On top of that, the bassist’s name is Dr. Professor Nitewolf Strangees. If that doesn‘t do it for you, the following is a history of the band per their publicist:
The band landed their spaceship in North Carolina in 1957. They then left this time stream and came back to it (20 years later), having never returned to the same time stream more than once before. They hid a time machine near Virginia, and set off again to explore the past, and the effects of the Earth's weather on the seeded Venusian babies, who would become the first "Earthlings". They returned for a third time to this time stream in the year 2000. This time they became stranded on Earth because Walt Disney had stolen their time machine 21 years earlier.
Thorr, however, manages to deliver beyond the bloated backstory. At least for now. The Venusians prove metal can have a conscience and still be gritty enough to leave particles of sand in your ears. “Infinite Lives” compares war to a video game without a Contra Code. If the boogie metal sounds of Valient Thorr ever make their way to commercial radio, I will chug a 20 ounce glass of paint thinner.

Wetnurse: Wetnurse




I’m not quite sure how to describe Wetnurse. NYC sludge with elements and tones that range from the AmRep school of ugly noise rock to Voivod to Die Kreuzen to Candiria. Their eponymous debut, self-released in 2004, is thrash meets hardcore meets Nikola Tesla on LSD with a loaded handgun. Rumor has it that scientists in Cambridge, Massachusetts have harnessed the unadulterated energy of Wetnurse to power a Prius from New England to Oregon. Do your part for the environment; scratch and scrape your way through the bowels of the Internet and purchase this gem, then cop their Seventh Rule follow-up, Invisible City. Go ahead.

Jail: At the Crossroads




Imagine JPT Scare Band or Bloodrock with a menacing vocalist that sounds like he has gargled with hydrochloric acid. This is Philly scum rock. I saw these beasts for the first time recently and I didn’t know what to expect when they took the stage and I realized they were the strange looking fellas adjacent to me at the bar swilling Rock & Rye and PBR moments prior. The lead singer/guitarist looks like he’s going to bust out into “Free Bird” at any minute, the bassist has a rather unassuming presence, and the new drummer is a humble, pony-tailed gent with whom I might have smoked a joint at a Pink Floyd laser light show a few years back. The only disappointment was that the three bands that followed Jail seemed insentient and pedestrian in comparison. If you’re ready for a blues injected sludge-oil riff rock hellride crushed by the hand of doom, then get on the train.

ASRA: The Way of All Flesh


If you have the chance to experience this band live, please do so. If ASRA were playing on the eve of Armageddon, I would forego spending my final earthly minutes with my loved ones to attend the show. Or at least strongly consider it. The decision would be difficult. I am also taking into consideration that the band’s acronym stands for Alleged Satanic Ritual Abuse, which I’m sure won’t earn brownie points with the Man Upstairs. H. Christos delivers devastating vocals and shifts from death growl to ferocious grind shriek smoother and faster than a Porsche shifting gears on the Autobahn. The Way of All Flesh is such a truculent cacophony of rage, I feel like I should be arrested for a violent crime upon listening, which is a feeling I wholeheartedly embrace.

GridLink: Amber Gray




Eleven brutal songs in under twelve minutes. You can listen to this album twice in the time it takes you to listen to Reign in Blood. If it were any longer, you would need a doctor's prescription to purchase the album as it would be likely to induce miscarriages among pregnant women and potentially lethal heart attacks. Former Discordance Axis front man, Jon Chang, transcends superlatives. His savage shrieking is adamantine and Takafumi Matsubara’s riffing is merciless. Amber Gray will make you feel like you’re jumping rope with a downed power line in a torrential rainstorm. I was lucky enough to experience GridLink in the flesh along with Chang's Hayaino Daisuki project, which is an equally refreshing, frenzied kick in the face. The only way I can describe Hayaino Daisuki, which translates to "I Love Speed," is a mountainous line of white china cut with The Berzerker and Dragonforce. Seeing GridLink and Daisuki live is comparable to a vision quest; a feeling of insanity may set in, but it is a rite of passage in which the end result makes one spiritually whole.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Vote or Die...Okay, You Won't Die, But You Will Feel Like Shit

If you would be so kind as to direct your attention to the right of this entry, beneath my handsome profile pic and the blog archive, you will notice a waggish little poll where your feedback is both requested and valued. I humbly ask your assistance in helping designate the self-loathing subgenre of writing which best applies to that which you have come to appreciate at United States of Apathy. Your choices are as follows:

- Pre-Apocalyptic Midnight Core
- Arctic Neo-Glam Death Prose
- Cerebral Slaughterhouse Basement Braintrust
- Aesthetic Homicide Belles-Lettres

Rock the vote. Choose or lose. Smackdown your vote. Let your voices be heard. Just click the goddamn button. Thank you.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Stiffneck Hermit Cabin Blues

Floating on a river of corpses,
The howls of my ancestors reverberate through the air ducts
As I inhale the dreams of all those who slept before me.
They smell like gasoline.

Smoke gorges the velvet throat,
Pupils dilate, conjunctivas evaporate,
Ghost children giggle in the hallway
Incognizant of the flames engulfing the building.

The birds talk dirty to the gods,
Defecating acid and scorching the earth.
The water supply is tainted, the air you breathe is poison,
And the hourglass has been trampled under foot.

Tiny shards of glass implanted in the heel,
Sands of time travel like pale riders on the back of the wind’s cold gale.
Nothing left to do but choke on memories length-wise
Not of better times, but of better mind
For it is not the memories you miss.
The time to move is now.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Empirical Evidence that Consciousness Continues to Exist After the Transition Known as "Death"

There’s an old song by Three Dog Night about “I’ve never been to heaven, but I’ve been to Oklahoma.” In the case of my neighbor, Fritz, it’s exactly the opposite. Literally, he has died and at least knocked on heaven’s door, but never gone to Oklahoma. He has, however, been to Arizona, California, and Nevada (twice). He won $2,000 playing baccarat at Circus Circus and subsequently lost three grand at Little Darlings, a seedy strip club where he claims he was mugged by management after questioning why every girl in the all-nude revue was wearing cheap Halloween masks in February.

His home smells like a library. He is seated with a Luger semi-automatic pistol on the end table. A Mauser rifle rests against a display case holding his collection of Viking ship models and German beer steins. He's wearing a sweat suit and a plethora of jewelry, including a gold Odin's hammer pendant and a silver ring fashioned into an SS Totenkopf death's head. One entire wall in his study is stocked with Hitler-Jugend memorabilia, belt buckles, armbands and merit badges.

He introduces his wife as Barbie. "Like Klaus Barbie [the Nazi war criminal], not Barbie the Jew-made doll." Barbie is suffering from Alzheimer's disease, her husband explains in a whisper, as she totters aimlessly around their cluttered home wearing a flower-print housecoat and matching slippers.

"Hi there, Barbie, show us how high is the snow in the Alps," Fritz suddenly calls out in a thick German accent. Barbie stops on a dime, spins toward her husband, and thrusts up her right arm in a sieg-heil salute.

"That's my girl," he says with a grin.

Fritz claims he had an aneurysm in the mid ‘90s for which he underwent an experimental operation. His body temperature was lowered to 60 degrees, his heartbeat stopped, and his brain waves flattened. The doctors call this time “standstill.” Fritz, however, claims he can describe in detail the events that transpired while he was both clinically dead and brain dead, including verbatim conversations in the operating room and the unique details of the intricate surgical instruments used to drain blood from his cranium.

He will draw you a picture of the Midas Rex bone saw from memory if you ask.

He will engage in fisticuffs with anyone who disputes the pretense that the mind is separate from and higher than the functioning of the brain.

He contends that Mussolini stored all the gold the Nazis looted from Spain and Portugal in the Vatican and, after the war, the Catholics let the Nazis escape to South America dressed as priests on jets. He knows exactly where the treasure is buried in the cellar. He will draw you a map if you’d like.

Fritz also claims he joined the Hitler Youth when he was ten years old, an allegation that is almost certainly false. Fritz was born in January 1939. While the compulsory membership age of the Hitler Youth was lowered to 10 near the end of the war, the Hitler Youth was disbanded in 1945 when Fritz was only six.

How does this impact the credibility of his assertion that immortality is conferred on humankind through natural law alone, rather than by an omnipotent, monotheistic deity? The world may never know.

Friday, August 8, 2008

The Long Kiss Goodnight

I can’t pay homage to hair metal grandeur without mentioning the makeup-wearing progenitors of rock and roll capitalism, Kiss. After their larger-than-life stage shows and poseable action figures solidified the band as a legitimate force in the '70s, their attempt to cash in on the disco trend, “I Was Made For Loving You,” proved to be as infertile as a woman with a chromosomal translocation. Around this time, I’m pretty sure the only person who still thought Kiss was cool was Sebastian Bach of Skid Row and my cousins in Cranford, New Jersey. Regardless, after making the ingenious decision to remove their war paint, Kiss rocked on into the decadent 1980s with half of their original lineup intact, repulsive spandex outfits, and enough Aqua Net to cause a decrease in stratospheric ozone over Earth’s polar regions. The result: the objet d'art that is “Lick It Up.”


The video takes place in some post-apocalyptic junkyard (think “California Love” on a college student’s budget) where scantily-clad women are leaving their underground dwellings and crawling out of manholes. Two skulls rest on the ground, one of which may very well be a primate specimen. Paul Stanley’s leopard print boots and tight dungarees amplify the intimidation factor of the skeletal remains. The ladies circle around a fire while one rugged woman appears to be squirting deli mustard in her mouth. Their attention is diverted from the flames by the four band members, all of whom are lip syncing the chorus. The image of Gene Simmons, Inc. in that black vest and low-cut hot pink shirt that barely covers his nips has been burned onto the back of my eyelids. He is a vile, repugnant creature and Vinnie Vincent looks startlingly like a woman. Seriously, if he was skulking around on sewer grates with the rest of the skanks, I would be none the wiser.

Dude, would you hit that?

Now it’s time for some food and drink. The women entertain their male guests with gasoline canisters of liquid that I presume to be a crudely-made alcoholic beverage with motor oil serving as one of the primary ingredients. The rest of the video involves the band performing live outside the Thunderdome or wherever the fuck they are supposed to be. Unfortunately, this involves close-ups of Gene Simmons, Inc. (sans God of Thunder makeup) and Vinnie Vincent trying to look masculine with a hot pink Flying V.

Honestly, I could write a thesis long enough to earn myself a full-fledged PhD in Vinnie Vincent. And perhaps I will commence in a future blog. Just recently, however, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to reconsider a lower court's dismissal of a suit filed by Vincent in which he claimed he is owed $6 million in royalties for his work on “Lick It Up.” If the Dylan-esque lyrics alone (“Lick it up, lick it up, oh oh oh, lick it up”) don’t warrant significant compensation, perhaps Gene Simmons, Inc. should cut him a check for briefly donning makeup that was shockingly somewhat lamer than Eric Carr’s fox-themed character. Ladies and gentleman, your fourth inductee: “Lick It Up.”

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Crossing the Rubicon

Throughout the years, I have said that I hate multitudinous people, places, and things. Hate was just another monosyllabic four-letter word in my vocabulary that effortlessly rolled off my tongue. On occasion, I have expressed my feelings of hate in the presence of an annoyingly virtuous person who will say, “Hate is a strong word,” a banal utterance I generally disregarded before reaffirming my hyperbolic feelings of hate. When I put things in perspective, however, I don’t believe I have ever met someone whom I truly hate—someone whom I would perform a Mexican Hat Dance on his/her grave rather than attend his/her funeral without blowing snot rockets in the open casket—until now. Hate is a strong word because it is a strong emotion. True hate is like true love. If you question whether or not you have ever experienced it, the answer is a resounding no. But once you feel it, you’ll know it.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Mexicali Free Verse: Reverse Engineering a Particle Beam Projector

God owns the Nikes that Marty McFly wore in Back to the Future Part II

You know, the ones with the power laces

When he walks in airports, people throw streamers, girls swoon and faint, and flight attendants scatter rose petals at his feet

He endorses consumer products in Japan and manufactures his own energy drink

He has read The Secret

He contemplates Pierre Bourdieu’s investigative frameworks of cultural and social capital and argues that judgments of taste are related to social position

His jeans are made by Dolce & Gabbana

He was spotted leaving Coco de Ville with Brody Jenner

Who the fuck is Brody Jenner?

TMZ is reporting a sex tape has been leaked with he and Miley Cyrus

His publicist declines to comment

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Bring It Home for Jerome

It’s that time of year again when I expand my vernacular beyond the realm of ‘80s metal to include palaver regarding contractual holdouts and two-a-days in 90+ degree heat. That’s right, training camp is upon us again, signifying the commencement of another disappointing season of Eagles football. In honor of this glorious genesis, I present the following—a small portion of a larger animal—which was scribed about two years ago. Enjoy.

Having been born and raised in a suburb of Philadelphia, I eat, sleep, and breathe pro football, and I bleed Eagles green. Everyone here bleeds green. A love for the Birds is a dominant gene passed down through family lineage. Elsewhere in the world, people often engage in meaningless small talk about the weather, but not here (although I frequently discuss this topic in the summer, during the offseason – ex: “Jesus H. Christ, I can’t take this heat….I swear my blood is thicker than cake batter!”). Instead, we break the ice by talking about Andy Reid’s playcalling on third and short. It is assumed that you love the Philadelphia Eagles. It is assumed that you know exactly how many passes the fifth-string wide receiver dropped during Thursday’s practice. It is assumed that you have memorized the precise times every linebacker on the roster ran the forty-yard dash at the combine. It is assumed you would give your left testicle (or left ovary...right, ladies?) to see the Eagles win the Super Bowl. Rooting against the Eagles is like rooting against America during wartime. That may sound extreme, but it isn’t. It’s considered blasphemy.

Apathy is absent on Sundays in these parts, especially today. This afternoon, the Eagles are hosting their iniquitous division rivals, the Dallas Cowboys, and the parking lot is already a celebratory mob scene of feverish diehards. Even when it’s twenty below zero outside, the parking lots along Broad and Pattison will be more than half-filled by 8:00 AM with an array of people partying and tailgating for a game that isn’t set to kick off until 4:15 PM.

Several years ago, I saw the Rolling Stones perform across the street from the asphalt where I currently stand. That day, people of all walks of life trekked from up and down the Eastern Seaboard to watch one of the greatest rock bands in history. I met a few interesting characters in the parking lot that evening, dabbled with some herbs and heinous chemicals, and drank my weight in imported booze, but the pre-show festivities paled in comparison to what transpires before an Eagles home game. Here, you can find anything if you look hard enough – More nitrous tanks in plain sight than three dentists’ offices and two Dave Matthews concerts combined…Bare-chested fanatics shotgunning beers and taking hits from a three-foot bong in a rickety midnight-green school bus…Thirty-eight year old accountants with their faces painted like ancient Philistine warriors, chopping out lines in an RV after guzzling numerous cold ones. Nothing is off limits here.

Now, before I go any further, let me get one thing straight: my goal is to paint a picture of reality as my eyes see it. In no way whatsoever is my intent to reinforce the adverse reputation of Philadelphia perpetuated by the national sports media. The so-called “experts” love to liken Philly fans to bloodthirsty savages who sacrifice farm animals in pagan rituals and seek to achieve immortality by feasting on the flesh of small children. After all, they jeered Santa Claus as if he was Hitler. They’ve launched batteries at opposing teams’ players. They even ejaculated in unison after Dallas receiver Michael Irvin was nearly crippled for life on the field, unable to move any phalanges as he laid immobile on the Astroturf. But the truth is that Philadelphians are the most loyal, hardcore, knowledgeable sports fans on the face of this planet. Can you blame them if they get a little restless? No metropolis with four major sports franchises has experienced a longer drought without a national title. If you were standing next to me right now in the midst of this green ocean, you would concur that the sight of more than fifty thousand people, whom comprise a variety of ages, races, and socioeconomic statuses, joined together for the exact same purpose is a beautiful fucking thing. For people of my generation in and around the City of Brotherly Love, Sunday is the closest thing we have to Woodstock. Except we’re not protesting the Vietnam War (or, sadly, the Iraq War either, for that matter); we’re protesting the Dallas Cowboys or New York Giants or whichever group of uniformed neo-gladiators steps into our house that given week. To some people, this may sound rather pathetic. Those people more than likely voted for Bush twice, listen to Coldplay, and identify with Dane Cook’s irreverent brand of comedy. And they probably root for the Cowboys. So they can go fuck themselves.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Magnum Opus

Ronnie James Dio is a metal god. Besides popularizing the devil horns hand gesture as the international sign of metal, his powerful voice has fronted bands like Rainbow, Black Sabbath, and his own solo project, Dio. I don’t consider Dio to be hair metal, per se; Dio is about as “hair metal” as Ozzy and Iron Maiden. Nevertheless, “Holy Diver”is a visual tour de force and it would be a crime against humanity to omit it from this shrine of acclamation. I’ve never seen Citizen Kane, but from what I hear, the allegory of Dio’s chef-d'oeuvre makes it look like a loose bowel movement in comparison.


In order to fully appreciate the genius that is “Holy Diver,” one has to leave all preconceptions at the doorstep. First, despite its title’s connotations, the video has nothing to do with deep sea diving. Second, despite the fact that Ronnie James Dio looks like a chain-smoking Camaro mechanic from North Jersey who just can‘t figure out what’s wrong with your carburetor, you will become spellbound by his portrayal of a valiant barbarian on a quest through a desolate medieval town.


Dio, clad in animal pelts and brandishing a sword, walks through the rusty gate and immediately finds himself in a confrontation with a battleaxe toting behemoth. His face is partially covered by tattered rags that resemble ripped up bed sheets with crude tiger stripes drawn on with a Sharpie. Dio is dwarfed by his opponent, which means that the giant brute must stand at an intimidating height in the range of 5’7” and 5’9”. Dio strikes him in the chest with his sword but, instead of killing him, his enemy mutates into rats.

As he fights onward, Dio is haunted by visions of a cardboard cutout of some kind which appears as a satanic silhouette. He visits a blacksmith who reforges his sword and stalks through the hallway with his new weapon past a sick bird on a perch. When he raises his sword, the wild bird soars through the air with the rope used to keep it perched in the previous scene still hanging from its legs.

The video concludes with a cliffhanger. The barbarian’s journey reaches a climax when he encounters three extra-terrestrial demons dressed like monks. The silhouette of the Beast in the background, flames flowing through the eye holes, Dio nears his nemeses as a man has a seizure on the ground.

I can say with all sincerity that “Holy Diver” is one of my favorite songs ever. Although this video may be his masterwork, there is a very strong probability that Dio will garner multiple inductions into this hallowed hall of visual perfection. If Clapton can earn three inductions into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Ronnie James Dio can double that number. No one utilizes the visual medium like Dio.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Gypsy Rose on a Gypsy Road


El Camino, beautiful mullet of the automotive world. Business in the front, party in the back, and my latest purchase to circumvent self-examination. When I die, load my coffin in the bed of the royal blue beast and navigate my corpse through city streets with a caravan of mourners in tow, blaring “November Rain” or anything that sounds remotely like Atomic Rooster’s "Death Walks Behind You." Then, dissolve my body in lye and store the brown, syrupy residue in a jar on the kitchen counter until it solidifies.
If you don’t wish you had one of these pulchritudinous machines, you are either:
a) Subconsciously repressing ghastly childhood memories,
b) Devoid of a soul, or
c) In a state of Enlightenment, which is the complete destruction of delusion and the consequent ending of craving and ill will; thus realizing the Second Noble Truth, which states that the direct cause of suffering is desire. Good for you.