tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69132182032543035462024-02-08T13:15:04.913+09:00hardworldersjoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00990588777307853884noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-42671666996193619012020-09-04T01:48:00.000+09:002020-09-04T01:48:05.937+09:00Putting The Fun In Annihilat-fun.<p> <span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">“Jeff- can you hear me?”</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Yeah. <i>(Chuckles)</i> Where the hell are we?”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“We’re not in Hell, man. We’re just dead. I’m in the grave next door to ya.”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“What!?”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Yeah, I know. Pretty weird, but already pretty stock. Turns out being dead is pretty much the same as being alive- limited confines not withstanding. But never discount the imagination!”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Wait, man. Uhhh how did we get here?”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Oh, you know. Our species’ predilection to self-destruct. Remember the election?”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Uh, yeah. <i>(More chuckles)</i> That got pretty crazy. The last thing I remember is the missiles in the air.”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Yep. And that was pretty much that. Care for a drink?”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“But we’re dead, man.”</p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Sure we are. We’re dead, <i>blah-blah-blah</i>. But check it out- the imagination is a powerful thing. So let’s roll back the proverbial stone and have a couple of gin & tonics, shall we?”</p><p class="p2" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i>(Muffled clinking in a mass grave from six feet under the ground.)</i></p>stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-35703050428483519282020-05-13T11:31:00.000+09:002020-05-14T06:32:53.447+09:00stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-60576762696188969762020-05-13T11:02:00.001+09:002020-09-30T01:57:39.406+09:00We're Just Bones in the Clockwork, Man<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
Ah, so where are we here? Jeff? Jeff, are you there? I can’t see you. What? You want to Zoom? What the fuck is<i> </i>that<i>?</i> The last thing I recall was going headwind into a three day bender upon the ascension, a veritable-vainglorious-scatological shambling…2017...people were worried...yes, that was a while ago. The meantime? Well, I don’t know…i guess I I was working and then I wasn’t, then I started working again, etc., and in the midst of it all there was Mexican and Thai food. Polish food, too. More than a couple of hamburgers. At many points there-in Laura told me to change out of my pajamas, where-upon I usually did and sat back down in jeans.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We moved around a lot, especially after we relinquished the Austin pad last May. Another season on Block Island and then we went criss-crossing this great land, camping and staying in many a motel/hotel accommodation. Yeah, a weird juxtaposition of cheap hotels and American natural splendor. Niagara Falls; Vermont, New York & New Hampshire en route back down to Texas. Toured Falling Water, the famous Frank Lloyd Wright dwelling. Met up with <i>our </i>Wright and stayed at the Joshua Tree Inn in the room next door to the one Gram faded into oblivion in. Carlsbad Caverns (word to the wise, Daugoyevsky- steer clear of New Mexican breakfast fare before descending into an enormous, totally silent cavern.); Joshua Tree again and- sea to shining bullshit sea!- All the way up the 101 through Big Sur and up along the Oregon coast. Lived in Portland for a hot second. Arches National Park en route back to the DFW. A whole lot of driving, man. Went to The Mattress Factory in Pittsburgh, Meow Wolf in Santa Fe to get exposed to the finer things. Hell, I even drove up to the top of Mt. Washington with Laura and my folks. Have you heard about that shit? Fucking terrifying, the kind of experience they give you a bumper sticker saying you survived it. </div>
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All that winding around just to end right back in the ol' ancestral seat here in bland-ass Southlake. A reluctant boomerang plowing through a whiskey-humid American fever-dream.<br />
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So yeah, after we elected The Beast into office, I had a bad feeling for the future, yes. Definitely yes. I went on an angst-fueled bender for a couple of days. It felt like we crossed a Rubicon, a place of no going back. A certain state of cognitive dissonance followed. And thus, that last entry. But, I wake up to a new morn and holy shit, Jeff! What the fuck happened?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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A goddamned worldwide lockdown, that’s what! So now my dissonance is the US of A's dissonance. Same feeling as after 9-11, but this time there's no one to declare vengeance upon to forge a 'national unity.' More about that later. Forgive me if I mix a drink. What drink, you ask? Well, how about some absinthe? Yes, Jeff, I know that it is 10:55 am, Texas time, but it didn’t stop me then, and it will not prove to be a barrier now. Why? When? Where? <i>(Getting agitated) </i>Because all barriers fall, for fuck’s sake! Look at the <i>(lighting the sugar in a spoon)</i> Great Barrier Reef! Bleached to the core! Sorry, sorry…please bare with me here, friend…this is leading into a memory. A memory that involves you and myself and great city of Prague, circa 1998. A Good Times Gang sort of affair, right here up in my brain; this boozed-out, beleaguered head organ.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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It’s a sad scene up there- all the copper wiring is dangling all haphazardly outside four or five busted holes in the walls.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Two or three squatters on what looks to be a worn out couch huddled around a couple of burning cd towers. What’s that top one? Is that a Manic Street Preachers cd? This Is My Truth? That must be Jay’s old CD. Crap, what is Jay’s old cd clutter doing up here? Oh well- his were mine, mine were his for awhile. This was before The Space Needle ate the Moray Eels, before DJ Shadow and the refined fare you brought into the picture. But hey- I’ll bet the MSP thought they were changing the world, eh? No doubt the same for ye ol’ Space Needle. Lob the stone, wait and watch for the ripples.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> "We are young and we have something to say!" Why is William Basinski talking to Tori Amos in the corner? Is this the right time for J. Spaceman to have a conversation with Alex Lifeson? Why are they all subsisting on a diet of dog food and warm Lone star tall boys up there? </span></div>
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Oh well, they're all old news, right? Fuck 'em. "Get out of here, brain vagrants! That's right, get!" <i>(Inspecting the burning rubble.)</i> Ah, yes. Here’s a couple of shitty one’s I used to listen to- Sting’s Soul Cages, all smoldering and crusty on the ground here. <i>(Grabbing hold of the burning tower, melting into my flesh) </i>"Fuck it! I will hold onto it all! I am a proud product of my past! I will...never be the person who listened to Sonic Youth in high School or even in my mid-20's. I...l even had a Dave Mathews'a faze! Oh, here's a Peter Gabriel cd I used to love. "I'm holding onto all of it!" Jesus, is post-history <i>reverse</i> dialetically unwinding into vast expanse of scratched and discarded cd's, with no high and no low to judge it by? </div>
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But who am I kidding? You were already listening to Can when I was into 311. And anyway, History is dead, says Fukuyama. MTV, Natalie Merchant and Cobain have disappeared, two figuratively the other literally. The dialectic ran out and here we are. And <i>now</i> I am inclined to agree with him. In plague times, time feels suspended. Everyday is the same day, and we are just lucky to exist in circumstances that permit ennui. Indeed, we can all don berets and finally feel an affinity for the French. We have time to ruminate. We have time, as it were, to breathe. To breathe and get essentially hammered.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> So let's grab the Green Fairy and take a wobbly flaneur, eh?</span></div>
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More absinthe! What does any of this have to with Prague, you ask? Well, hold on a second! Proust didn’t hurry about <i>his </i>recollections! Tame that American Exceptionalism, Stanfield!. After-all, we have no outer frontiers to get to at the moment…might as well set your sights to the interior. And that takes tranquility and calm. Breathe, Jeff. Look around Garland. Conjure in your mind the delicious chicken wings we feasted on while watching the Cowboys lose, once again, on that beautiful Fall day. Those wings came from Wing Stop. Breathe. Look into your soul. Wing Stop is still open for take-out.</div>
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<i>(In the corner, heating up another spoon) </i>What? Don’t look at me like that! I thought you were sitting cross-legged in chicken-winged tranquility up in your brain at home in Garland a couple of years ago! What? But the Cowboys <i>lost</i>? Goddamnit Jeff, we didn’t even know each other the last time the Cowboys won a play-off game. How am I supposed to take you back to a time I <i>myself</i> can barely remember? Ah, fuck it. Here, have this absinthe. I’ll cook up another. No use in putting up a fight. This shit is beyond whack. </div>
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<i>(Deep bong hit.)</i> Yeah, definitely a Restless Nation. Tocqueville would be fascinated to behold this. The US temperament put to the ultimate test- to idle. I mean, this is happening everywhere so this is a test of national character for every country, right? But for us, staying still is not part of life. No, we have to <i>do</i>. God is watching! Judging…Well, at least in the minds of a lot us anyway. The equivocation of "doing" and American Greatness is a vital link in the minds of many a citizen here. Proof: When you see a Viagara commercial on TV are those guys just laying around crying into their beers? No. They handle it, American-style. That cowboy hooks his phallus to his pickup truck and drags that dick right out of the dirt and into the grace of God Almighty. And we'll be right there- as a <i>nation</i>- to bear witness, tears streaming down our cheeks and pride glowing in our soul. All of God and American Greatness lies within that glorious vessel, and lo, <i>It </i>shall mount the world. Anything less is a Judeo/Christian dereliction of patriotic Dick Duty.<br />
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But let’s face it, my socially-distant compadre- we are not plowing any fields these days. Most of us were putting in eight hours a day in order to afford shelter and Wing Stop. The Economy is the new religion. Prosperity, once relinquished, lays bare a basic truth- that we aren’t bound to existence by anything concrete- nope, it’s all a centrifugal mass delusion of “culture.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> And our national temperament is not suited to getting this truck out of this particular puddle of mud.</span></div>
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And that’s fine. We needed it, this pause. Nietzsche diagnosed it, and since then we have been informed that we’ve been moving through the death of God. God understood as a <i>cultural </i>center, mind you. Have you read the Parable of the Lantern Dude? I think it was in <span class="s1" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">The Gay Science.</span> Anyhoo, this guy wanders into this town in the middle of the day swinging a lantern, freaking out that all the lights are out. Everyone rightly assumes he’s a dumb-ass and tells him as much. At that point, he takes a step back, looks around and basically says “Huh. Well damn. Y’all don’t get it. The thing keeping your day-to-day bullshit going is <i>gone</i>. Your religion is the last light from a dead star. You don’t know it yet, ‘cause your walking around in your present. Myself? I am a crazy dude from future times who is just now wondering why I’m having this conversation in the first place. Pray tell, where is the privy?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And oh- before I forget- You guys were the one’s who offed Him…stopped taking Him seriously and what-not. So (looking around anxiously for a toilet) So you might as well stop wringing your hands and get to work on something pretty fucking awesome to take His place. Until then, I’ll just chill out with this lantern and catch up on Tiger King”.</div>
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So shit duly filled the void, as shit is wont to do. We went from Baudelaire taking his fancy walks at the <i>fin de siecle</i> to our present day pandemic-riddled "globalized" globe. But one thing always stays the same: everyone has <i>some</i> gospel or another that they subscribe to. Nietzsche was hoping that we’d find something up on high, a manufactured “noble” goal, a ‘la Greece back in the day. An ideal, if you will. Personal excellence, the elevation of the individual. The <i>Ubermensch</i>. His diagnoses, though unfortunately taken as a challenge and justification for many historical agents (Hitler) nonetheless remains true. After thinking on it for a quarter of a century I have come to think that Nietzsche was a right about the disease but naive about the cure.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Because the hard truth here is that there <i>isn’t </i>a cure. There isn’t a center. It’s all a bunch of bullshit. That syphilitic genius/dipshit had no idea what the rest of us could agree on. Bound by his illness, his inexperience (no women, no age, no stabilizing vices) and having no taste for beer or even Wing Stop, all he had was the philological past, which he decided should be the future as well. But there is no going back, am I right? No, there was only the steamroller into two world wars and all the rest of it. Once again, he accurately diagnosed the problem, but sadly, even tragically, exacerbated the whole shit show.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Nope. It was always going to be downhill from God. Those that attempt to "rise" up as super people do so without mystique, investment banker douchebag types..Peloton Folk, in short. And those of us that hang out by our '78 Pontiac Firebirds will be content in being marginally, sexually amazing. And that will be enough. </span></div>
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Hm. Where can I steal a '78 Firebird here in Southlake? I know there are a lot of Hummers to be had, but vintage Firebirds? Might be time to don a loincloth, brandish a spear and begin The Hunt. We are literally surrounded by castles, practically begging to be stormed. Probably better dig out a tape to listen to while I'm at it. I think I have RATT's "Out of the Cellar" buried somewhere in my parent's attic. If I can't dictate the tunes than I can't determine the tone and then what's the point of the whole endeavor? </div>
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Exactly. So what, then? Why do we even feign a shit here? What keeps this whole shebang going? I have no idea. We are on thin ice and, as a species, and it is glaringly obvious that we need a tribe to fight. This virus is exactly the wrong kind of enemy to deal with right now. What we need are aliens in spinning orbs descending on us from unfathomable distances, the solution eventually launching Randy Quaid sacrificially into the womb of the hive, The Mothership.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<i>That’s</i> the kind of shit that will bind us, as <i>a people.</i> Not some “invisible enemy.” Hm. <i>(Sadly shaking my head)</i> Where is <i>he</i> these days? Hell, I’ll pour two fresh absinthes in his honor. Now Jeff, stop it. You can’t say no. I insist. What the hell is there to stay sane for anymore? Don’t worry, your kids will just think you’re being a little weird today. And besides, they have their <i>own</i> inner lives to attend to. Remember- dip the sugar into the potion and then light it. Gotta remember to blow it out before putting back in though! Around the third drink absinthe drinking gets tricky. This <i>(lifting glass)</i> is for Randy and his rascally patriotic heroics.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Ah, that was good. Weird texture, though. The hot sugar down the back of the throat is an odd aspect to it all. But hey, it’s all in the name of nostalgia, right? What? When am I going to get to Prague? You mean Praha? <i>(chuckles)</i> Soon enough, Jeff, soon enough. More immediately pertinent though, The Quaids ruled back in the 80’s and 90’s did they not? Dennis and world savin’ Randy. Dennis himself battled a third iteration of Jaws, another foe we could all agree on. (Albeit too late, thus DQ, the hero of the hour.) Fuckin’ saved Sea World, man! Clearly, the example of the Quaid Brothers proves that American solidarity requires a concrete, easily discerned foe, one that requires spunk and spontaneity to defeat. American White Spunk, specifically. How we fight: We mount the enemy and then proceed to thrust unto it until it releases and repents! But because God is dead, this virus does not give us that option. We can’t go all-American on it. No, we have to be dormant, the most un-American thing there is in the Universe to do. We have to relinquish the role of action-hero in our own heads. We have to feel insignificant; powerless. There is no Brukheimer solution.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Which is why I feel like the man for this moment. Jeff, I <i>always</i> feel insignificant. Nothing to see here! So let us go back in time, shall we? Let’s go back to Prague. The ol’ Clown & Bard Hostel. Besides the obvious hazy recollections, the in's and outs' of drinking and reveling and all those dimly-lit, youthfully naive conversations in strange corners of that wonderful bar, I remember taking a tour that one of the regulars there offered. On said tour, we stopped in front of The Astronomical Clock right by Wenceslas Square and he told us about the legend of clock maker. According to legend, upon finishing the clock, the king blinded him so he could never build another. Whereupon, out of revenge the clock-dude flung himself into the rigging, stopping the clockwork for nigh on a hundred years. Symbolically, time stood still. Now, this metaphor probably is not a new one for the Czech people, what with all the communism and what-not they endured. But I feel like it’s an apt one for our current situation as well.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> What? Well, there isn't a <i>literal</i> connection, Jeff. Well shit, now that I think about it doesn't really add up at all. What's the clock, who's bones, you ask? Jeff! Stop asking these infernal questions! Here, take a a good rip off this bong, okay? All right then, now. Let's just back up a little. <i>We're </i>the bones, man, <i>humanity</i>. We're just bones jamming up the rigging of the economy. And Covid-19 was the masked bandit that kidnapped us all in the middle of a delicious meal at Wing Stop...and summarily hoisted us all up, as a species, and threw us down into the rigging of post-modernity. Hell, he even threw the <i>boneyard</i> in there as well, simply for kicks. So here we all are, mired up in this metaphorical clockwork, all chopped, screwed and intermingled with tiny chicken bones. </span></div>
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<i>“Let them drink bleach!”</i> bellows our leader. Well, I’m glad that we’re getting closer to the truth of it all. Might as well get down to the marrow of his real sentiments for us fellow citizens. A vast field of strewn wreckage boiled down to it’s essential elements. <i>“Drink bleach!”</i> Good God, even the Soviet leadership never devolved this low. And believe it, he’s probably spewing a new bunch brain-stem ramblings as I type this. Fine enough! More gasoline for the Great Blaze of 2020! Wait…wrong paragraph. <i>“Drink bleach and get back to work!” </i>For the truth of the matter is that because there <i>is</i> no center, because civilization <i>is </i>based on The Absurd, because The Historical Dialectic has gone out to sea to reveal us as a bunch of dumb-struck fish flopping around wildly on this fresh new beach- because of all these things we are in the awkward position of having to make an arbitrary or ridiculously reasoned argument pertaining to why we should put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Cue the Lungfish, because we have finally hit the edge of mind/body split, where the mind has run out of ideas but our bodies keep on doing their biological thing. Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell: a bunch of fish flopping around in slow-motion to Lungfish. But hey, aren’t the robots supposed to take it all over? Where are <i>those</i> assholes? This is a perfect time for AI to seize the reins. If we program them correctly, it's even a time for them to seize the <i>moral</i> authority. </div>
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Wait, did Kim Jong Un just die? Well shit, why not? Might as well <i>really</i> douse this pyre in gasoline to add a bit of flare to this eschatological dumpster fire, right? Wait, he didn't? Hm. Here to believe, I guess. But hey, why get into all that stuff? The future might still have a few aces up it’s sleeve, and I for one don’t want to squander whatever<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>grotesque magic that lies ahead. And besides, it’s a remarkably tranquil day here at the Wirtala Manor. The birds are fluttering about, the “fuck-yeah let’s do this!” Spring-green foliage is bursting forth in Tartovskyian dimensions and one could very well be forgiven for forgetting that anything, good or bad,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>is going on at all out there. Plus, there’s this goddamned cat that we all love inside that couldn’t care less about all my ecclesiastical rumination that requires me to entertain it through “play.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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The fool must earn his keep, after-all. And it's about time The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion bumped shoulders with Toad the Wet Sprocket on this playlist.<br />
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stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-10104339542468124872017-01-22T12:14:00.000+09:002020-05-13T11:16:04.819+09:00Cognitive Dissidents<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Goddamnit Jeff, let's get right down to business. What'll it be? Me? Oh, don't mind me. (Enormous pull off a handle of Beam.) I'm fine. It's all going to be <i>fine</i>. Nothing to worry about. (Gesturing to two rows of fine white powder) C'mon, sir. Why not? What? You're a father? Fine, I'll just, you know, do it all.(Away it goes!) Ah. Jesus! That's the stuff! You know, one of the big criticisms of <i>Vinyl</i> was that they over-dramatized the inhalation of this wonderful drug. They would finish by spasmodically jerking their heads toward heaven. Personally, it didn't bother me at all. What? Oh yeah, they botched it up in many other ways, but not so much with the drugs. A little to...what? Why am I rambling, you ask? Why the heavy dosage? No, don't go, man. Take off your coat. Sit down. Why are you wearing that thing, anyway? It's eighty two fucking degrees out there!</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Shit man, I'm sorry. It's the day after Inauguration Day, and I'm feeling pretty weird. It's been this way for a while. How do they term it? Cognitive dissonance. Can't shake the feeling of visceral disruption. It's a witches brew of the world and myself. Indeed, the demons are riding out into the beautiful blue sky wielding sabers atop giant bats, no longer fearful of the light of day. The Ascension is on hand. The president-elect is shoving giant spiders into his being. Things are going sideways. The world order is about to shuffle; it's about to do the forbidden dance.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Fuck! I just remembered the Cowboys. Okay, veering away. There's already enough shit to go around here. Why burden the world with true pain?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So where are we here?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">What? It just seems like a bad thing, but things really weren't that great anyway? With all these bearded plaid-clad artisanal hipsters and their sanctimonious purchasing power? Well, okay. They ARE pretty irritating. Still, I don't know if I buy that. I myself am not the biggest fan of globalization. Personally, I <i>enjoyed</i> the diversity of currency and culture. But I feel it's worth the sacrifice to bring the third world and the poor into the fold? Homogenization sucks, man, especially for the traveller. </span><span class="s2">1</span><span class="s1"> But to regress into nationalism is a fantasy and this go-around we and they have a nuclear capability. And this is the prime reason for me why a dude like Trump is a big deal. We can't have an aberration on this scale. And yet, we have this aberration, on this very scale. The institutions that were created in the wake of the second World War were put there for a reason. Listen: outside of my own life and my loved one's I don't have a dog in this fight. On a certain level, it's all death hilarious to me. It is also out of my control. I want to believe that this is a hiccup in the world order, that we'll get past it in, say, 10 years. And I think we will...unless the missiles fly. But of course the missiles themselves will probably never fly. They very well could, however, dictate the geopolitical order in other ways. As in: who has them and who does not have them. Laura is always referring to 1984, where there are three powers that alternately team up against one another. So here we go. The United States, Russia and China. If we throw the UN, Nato and every other inviolable international sacred bond into the shitter, gravity will take over.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Sigh. No matter how many statistics you sling around, no matter what angle you want to take on it ("No man, I get it. You don't like Air Supply. But ((gently laying down the needle)) Have you heard <i>this</i> song?") having a man like Donald Trump in the Oval Office is an <i>a priori</i> bad idea. It is known before you start to make mistakes in your brain, also know as <i>reasoning</i>. Indeed, before you even have the spark. Before you even know that you are yourself. Like electing an African warlord. Why do you have to elaborate on the why of it all?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ah, but I'm just preaching to the choir, am I not? We're newly segregated, by affinity, in this new strange internet epoch. Anonymous and shiftless, we're like a goddamned Mormon congregation, people emerging from the body to give the sermon and then disappearing back into the body like fucking glob of ground beef back into the dead delicious meat of the internet until- Wait, hold on. Gotta change the tunes...smoke a little of this. (Exhalation) Ahhhh, cool. Man. It's hard not to get intense these days.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I'm not gonna lie to you about the tunes, El Dauggoerotype- I have been inspired by all of these teenage dreams that you and all our friends have been putting out there. And that's why I selected none other than the Counting Crows to listen to. Yes...it hurts. But that's the pain of the mirror, right? And upon this fateful eve we <i>all</i> must stare into the empty void. It's what Peter Gabriel sang of, and what Neil Peart wrote upon. Indeed, self-examination seems to have been an essential characteristic of my teenage requirements for music. Well, except for the Pink Floyd. But that is wrong- they too looked inward. Man. I wonder how much Floyd is on the Spotify. Hold on, I'm gonna check.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Holy balls! It's all there. It's 1:50 in the afternoon and I am young again, flying high. Here, Doctor, drink this beer. We're going to take this roughed up route, primarily for the experience, but mainly to just shed the horrible bullshit that is straight ahead and escape it all into the juicy womb of our nostalgia. So drink! Good man. Here's a shot to wash it down.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Speaking of the Big Trip, I am going to see 2001 on the 'morrow at the Alamo in 70mm. It's fitting, because I feel l</span></div>
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<span class="s1">like we're about to set solar sail down a nightmare corridor right here on terra firma. You know the passage of what I speak. Another sort of ascension. Man, if only the benevolant aliens had really gotten to us in the 50's. But still. Here we are. 2017. The music will be not as cool- all big band jazz and the horrible amplified intestinal rumblings of a faltering elephant. And it won't be psychedelic to the eye, either. It'll be more akin to a primordial plunge. A bunch of indecipherable soil, moving through and past you at breakneck speed, straight into the molten core. Cue the Milton. Cue the Mordor. Wait. Where is Gandalf? For that matter, where is Shadowfax? Is he flying around our tumultuous orb in tandem with Traveller? Two white horses doing what flying undead horses are born to do? I hope there is a heaven teeming with unbridled horses.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">For the moment however, here on Earth, our own Mitch McConnell is soaring through the skies atop his vicious flying lizard, and he is fearsome both to the eye and to the spirit. It's like a carnivorous wild turkey hitching a ride atop a piece of fossilized dogshit you drunkenly hurled into your neighbor's yard. The scale is off, yes, but you get my point. Indeed, 2017 could be alternately titled as the Wild Ride of Mitch McConnell. Watch that bilious asshole soar unnaturally through the flesh-eating sky!</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Man, I guess this is the time when you join the fight. Middle-Earth isn't just going to save itself, after-all. Someone has to wrangle those giant eagles. What else is going to pluck us out of this lava-strewn mire?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It's all there, waiting to be saved so it can be trashed and so it can be saved again. This, of course, is <i>not</i> the dialectic. It is the Eternal Recurrence of the Same. Different German! But back to Herr Hegel- If the dialectic is true, then that means that we're gonna chisel off the schist in tiny little increments back and forth in ever, smaller swings. That's the reasoning of the great experiment, is it not? Humans are basically good way down, and through said chiseling, we're going to get it all cool and smooth.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I think we all know that it's always going to be at least a little rough, though.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And fuck it all, I forget to see that movie.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Stock.</span></div>
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<li class="li1"><span class="s1">Or even for Traveller. How it must look to him, winged in the sky, flying over the free Earth? </span><span class="s3">↩︎</span></li>
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stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-76006682017814395352016-02-24T15:17:00.000+09:002016-02-24T15:17:15.386+09:00Kiss the Ring of Routine, Ye Mortal<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
So, Jeff. Where did I leave off? Ah, yes. Proust. Blurry memories all up in this bitch. Marcel had his fabulous dreaming bed and now we have our unfathomable internet. Me and you, on this river aboard the HMS <i>Hardworlder</i>. Right Here, Right Now. All signs point to a fair voyage! The ship is pretty awesome, is it not? And yes, I am an excellent skipper. Not in any way as cool as the lead singer to Iron-Maiden, mind you. That guy is my fucking hero. He is flying a 747-400 around the globe, and being, generally speaking, the freest man in the world. Hell, I don’t even <i>like</i> his music. But fuck it. The man himself is a work of art. A testament to the possibilities in this life. And you know what I just realized? I have always thought about running for the hills, running <i>for</i> my life, in many a work situation. In my darkest hours, in servitude, he has always told me to run toward The Light. That song is the soundtrack to my “flight” instinct, indeed, to break free like a wild fucking mustang. And I, the penned mustang, always see hills and mountains in my mind’s eye, every time. And to just add to his awesomeness, he trumped death…at least for now.</div>
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But the weather can turn in an instant, can it not? Death has got us by the balls, folks. It is a testament to our utterly <i>brilliant </i>firewall faculty of Denial that we somehow feel flabbergasted when He does His grim, inevitable work, that on a dime we are awestruck when the curtain lifts to reveal the <i>real</i> goddamn headliner in this show we mistakenly call life. That may very well be the cheesiest sentence I’ve ever typed. But, shucking my shoddy bullshit aside, Death is having a fucking field day right now. As I type this I am listening to Warren Zevon’s <i>The Wind.</i> Yes, yes, there is <i>Black Star</i>. I’ll get to that one soon. I was never a devotee to Bowie…hell, I wasn’t a Zevon sort of dude either. So, you know, let’s just deal with these last works one at a time. These guys, man. They just stare at you, as if to say: “HOLY FUCKING GORILLAS! I’m on my own here? Oh fuck. Well, I must make this exit. Okay. Okay.. .” Zevon on my left, Christopher Hitchens on my right. Both determined to go down swinging. And lo, Hardworlders, they swung. They swung for the fences. And now Bowie. And even more now, Scalia. I always thought of Scalia as a son-of-a-bitch. Turns out I was wrong. The man had his virtues. So, you know, Antoni, wherever you may be, I’ll leave you quarter under my pillow so you can book your passage across the Styxx. It’s the least I can do. </div>
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We should all be so courageous. But yes, Hardworlder, The <i>Routine.</i> Death disrupts it. The binding force that bridges space and time for us, us <i>all-too-humans</i>. The signifigence of the dual nature of a routine, it’s tyranny and its sheltering quality, really came to me when I was working as a salmon cook at the Taku Lodge a few years ago. Suffice it to say, it was a very insular experience. I was sown to a very tight schedule. I still have that watch somewhere, alder-wood smoke befogged as it is. Point is, time was a critical component. It weighed heavily on my mind. I was beholden to Him, Father John Timey. Amid the duties and tourists and everything that made up that section of Wilderness Living the routine was a mainstay in my psyche. Things necessarily happened in a very regimented fashion. The morning was for the cutting of the fish, the latter hours for the cooking. And yes, bears…of the black variety. It was all part of this insane cycle. The tourists, the questions they would ask, the absolute accountability of my body and the absolute necessity of what it had to produce, fish-wise. It was highly instructive. It also drove me motherfucking bonkers. Every morning me and this other guy had a sort of convergence in our routines.- I would be stacking the alder in the grill pit and he would be sweeping off the stairs to the lodge and every morning we would have the same exchange at the same time. It went thus:</div>
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“Bryor.”</div>
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And that was that. The intonation varied with the level of stress we were feeling, but the essence of the exchange was the same. That was the moment when we both knew that yet another revolution had been completed. The clock started over. Yes. The Clock. We were both beholden and built into what amounted to a tightly wound clock. Father John Timey was running herd on us, and He did not go easy on the lash. There were moments, Jeff. Moments approaching madness. What’s more, they were uniquely my <i>own</i> moments, as I largely worked alone. To wit: As the salmon cook it was my responsibility to fillet enough fish for the amount of tourists we were expecting that day. This maxed out around 250 souls. (I termed them White Wobblers, as they tended to be retirees, and they would wobble from side to side as they made their way up the hill from the float planes they flew in on. They looked like a herd of animated bowling pins that were in a perpetual state of imbalance. This eventually got reduced to “Wobblers.”) So I would arise early, sometimes as early as six in the morning,dazed and confused, put on my Carharts, hoodie and work boots and leave our cozy little cabin and walk across the property to the Lodge. The glacier. The river. I would then pour myself a cup of coffee. </div>
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Generally speaking, I was hung over. But I fight through these sorts of things. It’s a point of imbecilic, manly pride for me. </div>
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One morning in particular stands out in my flaky, mushy memory. Upon waking, upon walking over, upon coffee-making, at the hour of six am, I opened up the door to the fishhouse, my work-zone, if you will, located directly behind the lodge, to discover a large tear in one of the the screens. Evidently, yours truly neglected to close a window the night before. And lo, that negligence had it’s consequences. A bear wanted in. The <i>reason</i> he wanted in was because at a certain point in the season, the salmon run ended and we had to start using fresh-<i>frozen</i> salmon. Bare with me here. (chuckles) So basically, I had to thaw the fuckers out the night before. Frozen, plank-stiff dead fish that could have served as weapons in a skirmish, well, they were to be the coming days delicious offering to the Wobblers. It was part of the routine. It was the last thing I had to do before we had our communal meal. </div>
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But, let’s face it Jeff, I was enjoying drinks around that time, so shutting that window was just not accomplished. So yes. I opened the door to the fish house, and peered into it with battered, baffled Horror. Every square inch of the fucker was layered with mosquitoes. The time of year was the worst time for those hellions. It was amazing. It was borderline insurmountable. And <i>then</i> I panned over to look at the sinks. The fucking sinks that I used to thaw out the bloody fish. <i>Both</i> of them were drained. Fuck! My brain didn’t know what to do. But it had <i>to do, it had to direct my stupid limbs and my corporeal bullshit</i>. The schedule was the schedule! So I fucking killed mosquitos for two hours. I refilled the sinks. And then I started to cut the half-frozen fish, with my fucking dull-ass knives. I never <i>really</i> got good at sharpening those knives. But yes- there I was, struggling to fillet these half frozen fish with those very dull knives, the clock looming all around me, on my wrist, in my cerebellum, in Egypt, on Mars. Everywhere. The window was closed now, and the fish house was getting hot. The sun is way up, and the rays are streaming in sideways through the windows. Sweat was dripping off my brow, the fish slime was all over my fucking hands. Desperately, I sawed into the fuckers with all my primitive might, with a useless tool that couldn’t even sever a limp phallus off a dead Russian in a sauna in some back-ally in St. Petersburg. But I digress. <i>The slime.</i> The slime was everywhere. Normally, a flash-frozen fish is bereft of the slime. A refreshing benefit, as I’m sure many of my predeccers would attest. HOWEVER. Some batches of frozen fish are slimier than others. (Cue The Smiths) It’s like they are equipped with underskin volcanoes that continually ooze semen. It is, suffice it say, an inherently messy ordeal. You have to really hold them down on the cutting board. We had a screw driven into said cutting board to hold them (very tenuously) still. Anyways, details, details… </div>
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Jeff, wake the fuck up! I’m trying to relate some Proustian shit to you here! Speaking of driven screws, I am currently enjoying a screwdriver here at this weird diner named Frisco, here in Austin since 1953. These employees have their own hurdles to leap over. Well, each to their own I suppose. And in about thirty minutes, I’ll be across the street pouring drinks to happy dog folk. But for now, my friend, it is a Vegas Bomb for you. Quiet! You need a good jolt!</div>
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<i>So</i>, I am in there, in the fish house, sweating dreadfully, hands ridiculously slimy, and the mosquitos, <i>the fucking mosquitos,</i> are <i>everywhere</i>. They are buzzing. Buzzing in my ear, landing on my arms, on my shoulders, <i>anywhere </i>they can gain purchase. My hands are both very busy and very disgusting, so all i have in this scenario to ward off all these myriad agents of Hell, these little fluttering demons settling for purchase are my shoulders, my ears and my elbows. If I could kill a mosquito with the flexing of an ear, well, this was as close as i have ever gotten. The sun is streaming in now, the heat is (bum-bum-bum)…on. Kenny Loggins is mocking me from afar. I have to be out there soon, at the grill pit. Help me, Jeff! Where the fuck are you? Jesus! You’re all the way over in Korea! Fuck! Shit fucking Jesus! The Grill pit! I have to clean it, and then I have to stack the alder-wood. You stack in such a manner as to be able to spread it out to, you know, have a fire and such shit. To cook the fucking fish over. But first you have to <i>have</i> the fish. And lo, on that sunny day, Jeff, the fish were not ready. It was going to take a bit of art, on my part. It was going to take a lot more sweat. Father-Time and His Brutal Lash was riding me into the ground. But there are ways. I’m calming down now. Yes, there were and still are ways. But they are not easy. The mines of Moria are never the first path that should be chosen. So, basically: emerging from the sealed in, grainy 70’s horror show worthy fishhouse I emerged with a nice batch of 50, half-frozen cuts of salmon. The clock cannot be denied. The wobblers are suspended in air, perched above a glorious expanse of glaciers and are coming our way, irreversibly coming. The cum-covered, half-frozen salmon <i>mus</i>t be cooked. They must be <i>really</i> cooked.</div>
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And so there I am, in the pit, getting the wood stacked, sweeping frantically. *Sweeping* Getting the pit back in order. The bears, you understand, would show up in the interim moments and dig out the sand, looking for any last remnants of the baste. “The goo.” Now, before you deign to ask, let me just tell you:</div>
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Weirdly, it took a minute for me to remember those ingredients. But back <i>then</i> I used to recite them in my sleep. So, yes, the bears were big fans of the goo. It used to seep into the sand as I basted the fish. A grand tradition at the Taku Lodge! In fact, the goo was the reason the bears came around in the first place. People would always assume it was for the fish. But no! They wanted the butter and the sugar. Ah, shit. Once more, I digress. Where am I? Oh yes, here I am, at the grill pit, at around 8:40 am, looking down at crater, a piie of bear shit planted in the space I have to cook all these half frozen fucking fish in. Fuck!</div>
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“Bryor!”</div>
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“Scott.”</div>
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At this point, Jefferson, I am a greyhound in midstride, chasing the goddamn rabbit around the track. The rabbit IS unattainable, but I am moving, my teeth are bared, my tongue flapping wildly, rib cage hurtling through time and space. The task is insane. The circumstances are so stacked against me it would make far greater sense for me to just run around naked in the adjacent field, very high on drugs with a necklace of raw moose meat and a heart full of anticipation for the bears to come. But no. I am pledged to the task of providing 250 wobblers a salmon based meal on their trip of a lifetime, and goddamn it, Scott Wirtala doesn’t fail the elderly! Nor his employers! So fuck it all, let’s get this pit together and get a fire going! Okay, here we go. Shit. The wood looks pretty wet. Let’s just stack it up. Let’s just get it done. Too many other things to worry about. So, alright. Here we go. The tower is there. Let’s get the torch. Let’s just set it, start it, and let’s…just…huh. The flame is going, but the wood…the tower of power is slow to kindle. This is a problem. I could go into why the wood was wet, but that’s an entry of it’s own. I mean, my day was bad here, but the dude who suffered his hands getting blown off the year before, well, let’s just say it offers perspective, even from this spot on the River, in 2016. Suffice it to say we were short staffed the previous season, and the alder harvest was cut short. </div>
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And thus my plight. </div>
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I’d rather be a Nazi at Nuremberg</div>
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Man, no wonder Proust was such a sleepy head. He <i>needed</i> that bed. This dredging sort of work is exhausting. But, back there on the river, the one of Time <i>and </i>the Taku, I am bound to delivering the goods. So I fanned the fuck out of that fire. I put all of my dead dreams on my own sacred pyre and I got real on that motherfucker. “<i>Me</i>, you piece of shit? You will defy <i>me?” </i>Megalomaniacal conceits abounded. <i> </i>But anyhoo, somehow, I got it going. But it took time. Precious time. And, according to the law, the planes landed, and salmon was delivered. But it wasn’t over. Oh no. <i>Between </i> the groups, Jeff- there were five that day- I was back in the house of horrors, frantically cutting up more fish, all slowly thawing out in the sinks in gray murky water, the windows closed, suffocating, the mosquitos there nonetheless, sweating and swearing, the brilliant lighting adding the finishing touch to my own sort of Chainsaw Massacre. And thus every hour I would emerge, barely enough fish to cook, but enough, to get me to the next stage. I won’t waste any more of your time belaboring the process, but I will leave you with one last thing:</div>
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On this day, we had a celebrity guest. He was none other than Lovie Smith, at that point the recently fired head coach of the Washington Redskins, currently coaching Tampa Bay. I remember him very distinctly, standing in front of the grill pit. Like everybody, he asked me what kind of wood I was cooking with. When guests arrive at that place, you have to understand, they’re instantly intoxicated. They have to be- they paid a lot of money to do it, they gambled. So they have to feel validated. And this is just extra added thrust to a scene that is- was, whatever- pretty fucking scenic. Their leap of faith is absolutely, instantly rewarded. And thus: “What kind of wood are you cooking with?” It’s a technician’s sort of question. It’s a manly way to bond. (It’s Alder-wood.) He just looked at me on the clear bright day, a big grin on his face, and I just knew what the man thinking. He was thinking that I was living a <i>stress-free</i> life. Just me, cooking fish, banging girls and generally living out all of our adolescent dreams. An easy summer job. It was an interesting juxtaposition of two different people’s lives. On the absolute most stressful day of my life, Lovie was feeling relief. And that, my friend, is the tale of human civilization. Death hilarious. </div>
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So there’s that. Thanks for (maybe) following all that! But, as I said earlier, what this was all supposed to illustrate is the primacy of the routine, and how the Lodge brutally beat in the pros and the cons of having one. The surprising thing about the <i>routine</i> was that after a welcome respite from the tourists, when the fog took hold, when we enjoyed a string of bad weather days, the genuinely surprising thing was how <i>much</i> I missed it. The structure that it provided all the tyranny began to atrophy after a few days, and along with it decayed the sense of purpose, the very definition of my function out there. It was weird, but very real. I got nostalgic for my chains. Christ. Maybe I was just too drunk, reading too much Blake. Things sink in, no matter what you think. I listened to <span style="text-decoration: underline;">Watership Down</span><i> </i>on many a morning as I filleted those fish. I missed it. Hating my job was like me speeding off in my shitty Honda. I needed it, if only to hate . Fuck. What a depressing truth to acknowledge. </div>
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So where am I at here in this rambling ass entry? Let’s get back to the now. Jesus! These two dead knuckleheads are freaking me out. Zevon. Hitchens. The champions of a generation are flaming out, and let’s just face it: it’s in the timeline. Death is doing It’s Work. Love, as a big broad concept, does not align with End. Love is forever, man. However. What does Dr. Death disturb? Well kids, I’ll tell you what it disturbs: it throws a wrench in our <i>routine</i>. The very essence of how we make sense of time, how We orbit so many manifestations of all myriad sorts of bullshit, and how certain sorts of bullshit, in turn, orbits <i>us.</i> I’ve been trying to articulate this relationship for a few years now. It’s nebulous and tends to sound like a conversation between two freshman in a dorm room. Puff puff give, Daug! But in all grave idiocy, listen: The routine is something that gives a structure, and yet, conversely, can act as a personal prison. The limitation is something to push against, and yet, paradoxically, something that gives our subjective bullshit a concrete sense of direction…of purpose. Remember that goth girl in high school? The one in the red Honda CRX that sped away, listening to The Cure, smoking so defiantly, doing <i>both</i> at top volume? Well, it turns out, she needed Southlake Carroll high school, if for no other reason, as an essential institution in which to define herself against. And, let’s face it Daug, cigarettes were <i>cheap</i> back then. And those Cure records? Solid gold. Couple those with a rebellious personality and you have a perfect recipe for childhood a’la king. </div>
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Rebellion depends on an Establishment. Push and pull, all the way. The perambulations of society do not permit us to lay idle. We gotta get in the fight, either way. We must augment this idiotic corpus. It is our solemn, democratic duty. </div>
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Right? Hell, maybe not. Maybe we should have all stayed in those bleach-soaked classrooms. Maybe The Cure shoulda just stayed in Bloody fucking England. Geometry is, after-all, pretty useful. As is any math, actually. Shit. It all looks so wonderful and generally appealing, knowledge! If we could do it all again, we would. This is the sorrow of the world. When we are poised to hunger for the university experience, all that infernal information it is sealed off from us. What a fucking idiotic set up! Youth <i>is</i> wasted on the young. Or at least on a young David Scott Wirtala. The people most alive to the product find they are super not welcome to It’s party. And what’s worse, we are by-and-large a dull minded bunch, largely ineffective in the academic feast. But hey. We have the internet, do we not?</div>
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I’m not sure how to nuance this sentiment, but it seems that one of the only seductive aspects of dying is that it is only for <i>us</i>. At once for everyone and yet tailor-made to to fit us as individuals. A great, barely-perceivable cloak that covers us all. An endlessly employable tool for the manipulative powers that be. The end.</div>
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Jesus- all that goddamned <i>defiance! </i>We all start off that way. It’s why we gravitate to art in the first place. Satan has made a hell of a career out of it. That dude lost paradise too, you know. Hell, the evil fucker lost Heaven. That’ll make an eternal creature bitter over time. That is, if he existed in time. But no. According to the good book he created It, time. Schism implemented, courtesy of Satan. All according to the Divine Plan, of course. But wait. Was that part of The Plan? Must have been, right? Damn, Daug. I am no theologian. </div>
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But I do enjoy a drink. So let’s get down to the real business. What’s your flavor today? Chartreuse? </div>
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I knew it. A very distinguished choice, Herr <i>Doc</i>tor! It’s all the wise, considering that is all I have to offer. </div>
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Man. For all of my high flown hyperbolic horse shit, I just cannot even <i>get close</i> to the surreal because, holy fuck, El Jeff Daug, the world is weirder by far. I honestly, truly, do not have the stamina to keep up. It’s gotta be a hologram.There’s is no other plausible explanation. Is The Almighty drunk up there on moonshine? I mean, there is no other way to wrap your head around a world that is gonna be headed by a) an idealist, a self-described socialist OR that other guy. I’ll never say his name. We are at a fascinating brink. I feel like I am privileged to witness our civilization’s plunge into absolute lunacy. Is this a dream? Wait. Let me check. <i>Wake up, Scott. Wake up. </i>WAKE THE FUCK UP! Nope. I am still here. Shiiiiiiit. Well fuck. Okay. Let’s break this whole thing down into something more manageable. Where’s the cat? I can feed that thing. She’ll purr. That makes sense. A cause and an effect. Micro-sensical phenomenon. But I digress. So goddamnit, okay, let’s think about the big picture. There is no middle to the Road any more. We are at the brink of something profoundly…nuts. Life has to keep on happening, right? Was that a bad assumption of mine? Because, we are about to a) upend the whole shitty legacy that’s unfolded over our <i>entire </i>life, the moment Kennedy took that bullet, the entire Time of the Bastard, well, Jeff, that could very well all come to an abrupt halt. As in, raise the disc over your head, light-up the-land kind of end. American politics has told us our entire existence that to be 100% cynical about this bullshit. And yet. Here we are. <i>Fascinatingly polarized.</i></div>
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And then…the other possibility. <i>Two </i>other awful possibilities. One thing has been made balefully, painfully clear: there is no such thing as bad publicity. He Who Shall Not Be Named has just stayed in the headlines. Every integer has an absolute value, outside of the negative or positive. The only thing that matters is feeding the phenomenon. And we, as a fundamentally bored body politic, as a national media, have never let let that fucking weirdo go hungry. </div>
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And that’s the real story here, Mr. Stanfield. The fact that we are helplessly sliding and being herded by the thing we are powerless to look away from. The whole goddamned thing would be gone, Berkeley-style, if we could just look away. But, we can’t. We’re hooked up to these infernal devices. Looking. Always looking. </div>
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And thus, the candidate on the right. And the really terrifying thing is, he is preferable to Cruz, Holy Rolling Motherfucking nightmare that he is. Man, talk about bringing on the dark ages. “And a cloak of darkness fell upon the land.” </div>
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<b>And somewhere, way up there in the Heavens, this scene:</b></div>
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God takes a deep pull, hands the bottle to Satan. Satan matches Him. “I’ll bet you they’ll vote for Trump. I guaren-<i>goddamn</i>-<i>tee </i>you, Dude.” (chuckles softly to Himself) God takes the bottle back. Another Holy-Pull. “Watch it, buddy.” He inhales, burps slightly (nevertheless with omniscience) “No way. I mean, a made ‘em dumb, no doubt, but not <i>that </i>dumb.” “Hey, give that bottle over. *another long pull* With respect, I disagree. But just in case, I put my other guy in there.” “Who? That <i>wack-job</i>, Cruz? Okay, fine. But check this out. *takes another drink* I’ll counter your Cruz <i>and </i>your hellish Understudy and <i>I’ll</i> put in an aged socialist revolutionary. *takes a <i>very</i> long pull* Hah! That’ll fuck ‘em up. This, (reverberating burp) <i>this</i> won’t be boring. God, I’m sick of being bored.” “Tell me about it. Work is for the dogs. Anyway, what do you thing about that Wonderland place down there?” “Oh, that place? Ah, who cares. Make it, ah, make it a hotel or something. Who cares? I’m going to bed.” “Really, man? You’ve been asleep for, like, thirty-six years.” ”What can I say? I’m old. Old Dudes take naps. *shrugs* And I’m as old as they get.” “Very true. So I guess we’ll see how all this turns out, this race? You owe me big if I win. Just sayin’.” “Yeah man, whatever. Should be fun, either way.” </div>
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I work at a bar called Wonderland. I could have edited the promotional content of that dialogue, but whatever. This blog is, after-all a document of its time. And, largely, if not <i>entirely</i>, unread. SO, anyway- Hardworlders, what’s it gonna be? Are we to emerge into the Clear Bright Light or careen wildly off into The Deep Dark? It’s weird. It’s fascinating. It can’t be real. Jesus, maybe this is it. The Biblical Divide. Bring on the Holographic Horsemen! Where is that seven-headed Dragon? Is this going to go down before Game of Thrones is done? Can I get HBO in Hell? Hark! Is that a trumpet blaring from on High? </div>
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No, it’s not. The wheel in the sky must continue to turn. And <i>that</i> is <i>precisely</i> why I’m pouring this drink for you, Master J. (Nodding) <i>*clink*</i> Drink up. Oh, that’s nice. I’m glad you’re not fighting it anymore. Acceptance of our temporality is the key element to good drinking. Yeah…this Chartreuse does not taste very good. But who cares? Jesus, it was made by monks for christsakes! All we are is dust in the wind, man. Wait- where are we? Is this a dorm room? Holy hell, Daug. We’ve made it! We are young again! </div>
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Well how about that? It appears that we have defeated Death, after-all. I knew it! I mean, I always kept it quiet, but I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that the rules simply do not apply to dudes like you & I. So yeah! Here we are, back in college! And now, at last, we can get SUPER baked. What? That thing i said earlier, about the young? I don’t remember. It’s all harmless, right? Let’s get fucked up! Oh, well <i>hellllllllo</i> there ladies! Welcome to D-400, the new pad of the Hardworlders! Yeah, I know. We’re really popular. It’s an undeniable fact here in the dorms. Here, smoke this. See what I mean? Yeah, I know, we’re really cool, too. Jeff, why don’t you give these inappropriately young ladies some musical knowledge?. He’s (inhaling) practically a musicologist, you know. Wait. Shouldn’t we be <i>studying </i>or something? <i>*Hysterical laughter* </i>I know, I know. I’m a gas. But hey: I’m deep as well. Let me sing you this song. Where’s my guitar?</div>
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Oh shit. That was the test. Jeff, you <i>know </i>I could never play the guitar. Goddamnit, this <i>is</i> a dream. Shit, I knew it! I fucking dog-damned knew it! Well hell. Oh well. Hey, will you look at that. President Clinton is about to give her State of the Union address. It’s a good thing that shit wasn’t real…I was totally going to skip that class. It’s a shame, really. It’s all just a winding river of shame.</div>
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The end is gonna happen. i was all cued up to see a Golden Boys show, tonight, but alas. My intentions fall face flat in the face of Better Things. My best lady snoozing on the couch. Music at hand. A hell of a lot of whirling action out there, communicating the beautiful truth that I need to be exactly where I am at. </div>
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I mean, come on. I have a gorgeous woman passed out on the couch next to a copy of The Brothers Karamazov. Right here. Right now. I’ll take up the struggle tomorrow. Till then, my friend….</div>
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stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-88730986185935281252016-01-11T05:30:00.000+09:002016-01-11T05:30:07.942+09:00The River is a Bitch and a Blessing<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
Ah, yes, this is familiar. Cue the Tangerine Dream. The hallowed halls of The Hardworlders. Grand splendor…though tragically silent. Cold. Baudelaire’s “Parisian Dream.” Behold the busts lining great hall! Austere men of ignoble lineage. Silence. White eyes; no eyeballs. Every face a map and a tale. Broad foreheads. Expansive, penetrating eyes! The Names: Stanfield. Graybill. Wirtala. Jacob…George…</div>
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Yes, ancestors to our own selves in this broken accordion that we call space and time. What were these bumbling Titans up to, way back then, six ridge lines over to the left? Play the song, goddamnit, make the monkey dance! Seoul? Tokyo? New York City? While not exactly young, they <i>were</i> far-flung. Grizzled, existential road warriors, made hard by the Night. It’s a creaky sort of instrument, the accordion. It produces a weird, haunting sound. </div>
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Fuck it, I want a moon taco! But wait. The moon taco must wait. It’s early, but the early hours mustn’t make us heavy. They cannot weigh us down with the grim specter of the realities of the forthcoming day…or the deliciously weird stylings of the otherworldly taco down the street. Oh no, Hardworlders. We must drink. We must fly. But right now, there is but two of us, so Jeff, my friend, take what I give to thee: I know, I know: EARLY. Yes, perhaps, but see how your reluctance recedes? (shaking drink) Welcome to my home. Yes, I live in Austin now. Cherrywood district, if you must know. But enough of setting the setting: Do you feel the power, my good compadre? Yes, I know you do. This is a fancy cocktail, all the rage at the moment. It’s the Last Word. Equal parts Chartreuse, gin and Luxardo with…some other shit. Don’t you worry about that. Just drink it. No, drink. None of this flimsy feigning! This hollow refusal! Such gestures are for the Chumps! Not <i>our</i> gang. Stop throwing your hand in the air! Yes, I know that you’re a father now. “Responsibilities, blahblahblah!” But hey, Be a Lemmy sort of dad. He just died, you know. So what? <i>So what?</i> Be a <i>real </i>role model, Daug. Yes, thats right. Now you’re beginning to see the light. Now you’re ready for the fight. Theeeeere you go. You see? Myself? Oh, I’m just having a beer. Mundane for moi, maximum class for thee. That’s how we’re gonna get this leaky boat out on to the river. Our vessel: The HMS Hardworlder, navigating the river of time. Bullshit behind us, bends and nooks aplenty ahead, but, at the moment, right here, right the fuck <i>now</i>. Huh. Now is then. Whatever, fuck it all- let’s launch this rickety-ramshackle iron clad into the dangerous drink! </div>
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Yes. Now we’re going. Gotta abandon this stoner sort of analysis. Action requires killing. Wait! Let’s ease off the throttle a bit, Wirtala! Get out of your head and get on that river! To where? Well Daug, I don’t know. Time is tricky. The river is elusive. Too many goddamn sloughs! Off shoots that get us nowhere. Let’s turn around and look at where we’ve been, aight? Let’s get out bearings here. Where, <i>exactly,</i> back there, did we launch this thing? 2010? When did our holy sloop hit the bank? Also 2010. Holy shit! How can a year <i>look</i> so simultaneously futuristic and yet <i>feel</i> so goddamned old? There it is though, behind us all the same. Who…well, let’s just throw some more wood in here and get the steam up. Kurtz is around here somewhere. Maybe, if we’re lucky, old Werner will bring his camera and his keen eye and make this all more memorable. But we’ll see about that- he is, after-all, getting kind of old. Rickety old Kraut, he is set to join Lemmy sometime soon. Until then, The Big Party beyond the river will just have to be poorly documented. </div>
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Yes, Jeff. The recording. Our soul is in peril without one. Where’s Herzog? Where is his iPad? Frozen in time. But even recordings fade.. or, they used to. Now, things are getting weird. The recordings are going toe to toe with actual experience. More real than real. They’re quicker. They’re customized. They’re dictated. But shit. That’s a hell of a slough to go down. Too much, man, too much. Yes. Let us continue down the river. </div>
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2010…darling, let’s turn back the years. Where the fuck were we? Here, on the 9th day of the newborn 2016, that is a considerable chunk of river, in human terms. Six years of bullshit. Myself, I was in New York, odd notions of a musical career, but mainly shooting sideways- wonderfully, albeit- but largely running fast and loose around that cruel, marvelous city with a blinding bit of new found freedom, romping around Williamsburg without a plan and generally waking up red eyed on Josh Wright’s Ikea couch every morning to the cold gray dawn as my benefactor hopped over me on his way out the door to work. (The Ikea, couch, you understand, is a low to the floor foldout piece of furniture.) It was an interesting intersection of hedonism, weird, nebulous ambition and good ol’ fashioned Good Times Gang hanging out. </div>
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But it was an important time for me. </div>
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And Daug, you were embedded in a true foreign land, our own personal Marco Polo to the East, were you not? A brand ambassador of cool to those who knew it not. How could those tender little Korean kinders have known anything, otherwise? What, were they going to just acquire an early knowledge of Norwegian black metal all on their own? No. Absolutely not. Whatever the Satanic theologians may say, that sort of thing is just not <i>a priori.</i> <i>Education</i> is required. A true, died-in black-hero had to turn up on that scene, and that hero was <i>you. </i>I look forward to the cultural output of South Korea in 2025! Once the Stanfield Generation hits the scene, shit is gonna get dark and tight. And, fortunately for all music lovers, the world will probably look the part for the fully formed Korean black metal scene. Dead oceans, besotted air and beautiful, bare expanses of scorched earth. I just hope they know and understand the gift we’re leaving them. But I guess we’ll <i>try</i> to tell them, what, with all the free time we’ll have hunkering under the earth’s surface. Because the free tribes will be <i>digging</i>. Believe it.</div>
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Odds are, even then, they won’t. By that I mean the understanding, the appreciation from The Youth. The digging will just be a fact of life. Rock and roll never dies. We never appreciate the gifts given down from on High. Particularly when we’re young. Let’s just say it now, then, with the humility of a true saint: Future, <i>you are welcome. </i>Underground, the kids will be into <i>overground</i> music. Predictably, they’ll call it <i>Uber</i>ground. Anything to carve a niche, right? We just can’t deny the kids their right to fight. If we just gave it to them, then it would be a sad party. </div>
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Now, back to the Now. Austin, Texas. Here in this enviable city, within its Limits. Humps and hurdles amid the nouveau Riche, toiling like a unconvinced maggot within its commodified corpse. After all that seasonal fare, all those years, I have been trying to make an honest man of myself. Indeed- acquire an honest service industry job, put in my thirty to forty hours a week, establish a healthy, <i>reasonable</i> regimen. In short, learn to love a limited life. It hasn’t been that easy…it takes a while. But yeah. A lot of the blame starts and ends with yours truly. I can’t consider this line of work -servitude- a proper calling. The Industry wants respect, it wants <i>dignity</i>, and therefore, demands your passion. It’s not enough to just maneuver your body and your brain. No, not in laid back Austin. They want your precious soul. You got be passionate about sustenance. </div>
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So, yeah, there is that nauseating hurdle to flop over. Grackles know no hurdles, however, so thus I power on. Learn from the indigenous population.</div>
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Acquire the power of the grackle, Wirtala.</div>
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Within this bullshit snow globe, I have labored. Theatre’s of menial toil, often where boredom becomes pure pain. Dormant on a rock, in the middle of the raging river. The work itself: just a bunch of flopping around. But hey, Mr. Stanfield, that is another entry. I’ll document the flopping on the deck of the work boat. It’s around here on the river. Never very far. That would be the infamous <i>HMS Motherfucker.</i> It is a black, partially submerged, ugly beast. Primitive, yes… but potent. But I have to save that vitriol for another nook on this fiendish river. </div>
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Not to be negligent of the good in the good things in my life: I have a goddamn gorgeous, fiercely intelligent lady, a job that’s ridiculously easy on my nerves- hell, even a bit lucrative- and I live in a slice of this dead city that might as well hoist itself onto the top of a mountain, raise a flag and let loose on a bugle to proclaim Itself as the sacred destination to the Third World. “This is what your fighting for!” Civilization, reasonable prosperity, babies everywhere. I live in the bosom the American Dream. But even here, in the dream…the grackles. </div>
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But Christ. A testament to my lack of passion: Daug, I see that your glass is bare to the bone. No more! Put. That. Hand. Down. Your feeble protests do not register with me. Shush! Hands down goddammit. We’re just getting going here. Here. Trust me. Just sniff this. Well, it’s more along the lines of a long nasal suck. Don’t look at me like that. <i>You need this. Alright. See? You feel better. </i>And here’s your beverage. It’s something called a Vegas bomb. I don’t know…just drink the fucker. I know what I’m doing here. </div>
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Better, right? Right. Yeh, I can see the difference. Hold on. <i>Snooooooooort. </i>Jesus! I love Austin!</div>
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Right now, I should be at the gym. I should be enjoying the benefits of The Routine. Fitness. Strange, latent childhood ambition. Racquetball, back from the dead. Haunting my dreams for too long. But no…it’s unfortunately time to go the other direction. It’s time to go to this coffee house, drink 8% beer and hammer away at my imbecilic discontent. (hours later) And it is also time to sit at the bar, hashing out this entry.</div>
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They say that one has to commit, and lo, Jeff, I have committed. I just can’t sell Austin short before i give it the real test…the proper odyssey. On foot. I guess that is what I just goddamn did. Graveyards were walked through. I turned at the fading light to reflect upon the fading out of Gangs of New York…and I pontificated. I pontificated hard. In Anchorage crosstown treks were the norm. Not so much here. This is unfortunate. One does not really, <i>truly </i>know a town until one walks it. The silent spaces, unmolested by advertisement and human endeavor. Quietude, in a word. When you drive, it’s really about you. <i>You</i> are getting to where <i>you</i> are going! The You Show is going on all cylinders. But, when you slow it down and traverse a landscape, a cityscape, etc…you become peripheral. It’s better like that. It’s healthier like that. </div>
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But the routine, the great cycle. “Jamaican Gold” is done. That means it’s two o’clock on a Sunday. That means I have to work in an hour. I have to open up Wonderland. it’s tough, the routine. In theory, I mean. It is both our captor and our benefactor. Vacation is a lovely thing. Aberration is divine…but it all hinges on the structure. </div>
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These bloody posts are kind of like riding a bull. The bull always wins. But The Ride is what counts. Temporality is in the matrix of the enterprise. This blog is gonna be a sort of a poor man’s Proustian affair. I think others will join in. I know more than a few prousts with potential. Everybody has an accordion locked up <i>somewhere. </i>But for this moment, this note of the chord, Jeff, ’tis just me and you. Let’s liven up this fucking hall. I’m pouring you wine into the skull of Townes Van Zandt. Drink up, good buddy.</div>
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stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-9535295102098078742015-12-01T08:30:00.000+09:002015-12-01T08:31:13.172+09:00New Adventures...Looks like this one is restarting again. Stay tuned. Check the other site mentioned below (basically, hardworlder without the 's') for Korean thoughts. I don't live there anymore, so it stopped in 2012. I guess this one will be foraging forward with Scott Wirtala and me, but others might join up. Music, life, adventures...and babies, of course.Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-63224053558767671402011-10-05T10:36:00.000+09:002011-10-05T10:36:54.608+09:00Dead blog.Hey, this blog is pretty much dead. So, go over here: <a href="http://hardworlder.blogspot.com/">hardworlder.blogspot.com</a> where I imported most of my posts, and will continue putting shit up there about Korea and junk, for the 2 or 3 people that might be interested in that kind of thing. What happened here? I don't know. People got busy lives, except for me, obviously. Hardworlders 4 Life! Love everyone that posted, though.Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-26732615323015389702011-02-24T06:46:00.000+09:002011-02-24T06:48:53.394+09:00Godspeed You! Black Emperor<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QGFrENHr9Jw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br />I went and saw them play last night in Pomona,CA at the Fox Theater. I took a video of some of their 2hr 15min set. <br />Enjoy!Blackeyed Donkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10721653984778224460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-18488011153009500482011-02-16T06:19:00.000+09:002011-02-16T06:21:27.569+09:00Robedoor<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/gKn-RQLIKYY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br />This is one of my favorite bands in LA right now. Robedoor.Blackeyed Donkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10721653984778224460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-50581467230819880092011-02-15T12:14:00.000+09:002020-05-13T11:04:22.043+09:00I Smell a Mean Struggle<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It is telling, the great divide between our fondest hopes and our own grueling reality. The chasm is always there, often more actual than...wait. Pretty girl. Uhhhh. Alright. <i>Get it together, Wirtala!</i> We have things to write here. But man. You guys should really see this one. I am rightly beguiled. But hey. Logical consequence? Shit. My nuts are all knocked out. Recent blow. A true connection. So. This other reality, this gulf that stands between Us and our Great Hope. It is there, my friends. No matter what we do, no matter what we scheme, we will never close the distance. This is painfully illustrated by last night proceedings. I tried to will myself into the Love of an eighteen year old girl and woke up next to a thirty-four year old man. Try as I might, I can cannot defeat the Ultimate Logic. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Such is life? Well sure.But hold on. Is this, indeed, life? This particular girl has been coming around for a while now, only when I am dead drunk and completely incapable of even very simple tasks and lo, I repeat the same idiot jokes and go through My fascination of Her and once more I ask her name and she says I know it and the whole thing just deteriorates and I finally loose my long-since-slipping hold on reality and hey, the Gulf is right there: expanding, burping, taunting and yawningly indifferent and I forget who I am and decide that why not? let's get into all of this mystery and into the chasm I dive! and ok, I'll see You on the other side. This little devil appears to me, in a fever like some kind Elf-Witch only in my most base, my most morally deprived states of consciousness. It is like a deep, very convoluted dream. It is fucking fucked up. She is my Black Swan. And I absolutely want her.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Well. good luck! Jesus. But we all know those morals are long gone, eh? I am not here to pull the wool over the Hardworldom's collective oculars. I am here, in fact, to spread the Gospel. And like any True Messenger, I am treading a precarious line. It seems that I am continually undermining my fondest hopes and my college-best efforts. But this is the the great chess game, and my intuition seems to believe it has the key to what's up and what is Wise. And It will summarily drag me by the throat through the River Styxx. my bloated body in its maw and pouring my very own bile down my own blistered throat and will surely set the buzzards all a'circle overhead, possesed by their mindless flesh-lust as IT achieves it's own Satanic Bidding. Intuition. We all obey some master they say. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Hey-ho! If anybody pays heed to all this, in the year, say, 2042, I would like a diorama crafted in the Museum of Natural History, right here in New York, depicting all of this. Me, nay, perhaps my <i>very own</i> stuffed corpse, glass eyes and all, clutching a half empty bottle of whiskey, wild-eyed, haphazard, an expression of disbelief bordering on some kind of mindless maniacal rage, in a stance suggesting some sort of misguided vigor, friend in the corner, shoulders shrugging, their expression somewhere between pity, futility, and utter horror of what's to come. A woman, just staring at me, thinking, "well, what?" all-of-it against a backdrop of the Magical Cosmos- shooting stars, meteoroids, the rings of Saturn- all of it, and some kind of ethereal celestial music stylings befitting of The Eternal Massacre Of The Gods, which, by the way, will be the title of this whole future motherfucking rendition of the Great Struggle. Is this too much to ask?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Very probably. However. The children of Today are the old people of Tomorrow. I'd like to think that our Children's Children will want to know this kind of stuff. I am not an absolute nihilist here. I do have a heart. I, too want to help our human race. If, indeed, they can reap the bitter wisdom that I have to give. Trust me, Future, I am here to help. Right along with all those dinosaur skeletons and space evidence at your discretion at that folky little museum. That incredible masoleum. The degenerate 4th dimension here, at your service. But shit, yo. We are here to ruin the future, here in 2011.Believe it. Fuck. The very twisted stylings of David S. Wirtala, circa 2011. Cool. Now.Let us kill him. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Here to help. So yeah, I am still here, all cylinders and remaining palpitations, hammering and pounding with questionable results and even more doubtful outcomes in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Fashionable place that it is. I am knee deep in this band. And we are going to lunge soon. Whack! Yeah. Not much more to say until the ship sails I guess. But our name is Control. Heavy, right? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Like I said, last night was a rough one, the absolute zenith of all my desire confronting me in my lowest state like that, but I am resolute in my task and am not so easily dissuaded from my own denial. Sorry, Lord. It's gonna take more than that. If I just back up a few more paces, if I can juuuuust manage to intuit the perfect angle I think I may just bridge it all. That little dude in Pitfall managed ok. Though he did get consumed by crocodiles on more than one occasion. But such is the price of the playing the game, eh? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Yimmering and yammering here. And absolutely inconsiderate. We have all of this fresh blood in the mix and I have not poured a single beverage.This is intolerable. I apologize. Not my style. Christ. Look at you guys. You are withering right in front of me. I've turned a blind eye to your thirst in the pursuit of my own truncated eloquence. But no more. Alright. George, welcome! You are a noble man, and a fine addition to our tribe.It has been too long, has it not? Glad to have you here. I am searching the bar and...well, I think gin is in order. Gin and grapefruit juice. I'm putting a little triple-sec in as well, I'm just not exactly sure why. This is your first Hardworld cocktail, after-all. A very, very special occasion! This is why it is thirty-two ounces. Jacob, you are abroad, so I am giving you a taste of Bitter Freedom: a seven and seven. Also thirty-two ounces. That converts to some unknowable quantity in your surroundings. How is all that going, anyway? Shanghai? I admit to a bit of envy. What? Oh, it's cool enough. But the idea of Asia is sounding pretty enticing these days. To me, the Big Money and probably even God himself. You are, de facto, in the Current Fashion. Anyway. On with the drinks! Jeff, I have a bottle of champagne, well chilled, expressly for you. It is refreshing. It is divine. What? Oh, you're totally welcome. Anytime! This is a time for such things. Convivial offerings. Overflowing cup and what-not. We are Hardworlders, after-all. Way more secretive than the llluminati. Boring! Passe, all of that. Genuine deep mystery, right here. Fit for proper secrets, OUR lot. Ok. Joel. I have not forgotten about you. I saved the best. Believe it. So here you are! Hold on a second, this has to be delivered. Alrighty! Three bottles of Grey Goose delivered to your table by a beautiful Russian femme! She will never let your glass get even remotely half-empty. If she does, then let me know. Trust me, she understands the repercussions of such a failure. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Alright. Pardon me while I take a whiff of this stuff. I really should clean house. These whipped cream bottles are close to avalanching.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So, the events of the day. Egypt is revolutionizing, What? Oh, it's right here. Light on up. Sure, I'll take a hit. Wait. Your enthusiasm is infectious. What? Sure, it's cool but now what? Do they democratize, do they elect? It's all fun when in revolt but now that the deed is done where do they go from here? Man. Getting a little confounded here. But that's cool. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And we are all kind of like plants, right? Wait. <i>Planets </i>right? Shit. we're like both. Hold on.<i> (exhales)</i> Oh yeah. I totally feel it. I'm one with both. plants, planets, Earth, Cosmos, God, 3-D movies, ramen noodles, cheese, urinating in public, facebook, all of it. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But back to this girl. Maybe she is just some sort of brain-stem projection of mine. Maybe she just exists in my own grotesque fantasy. A Creature from my Black Lagoon. Wirtala and his Black Swan. It is a very strange place, this wellspring. Wouldn't drink from it! . But this fantasy projection.. is not beyond doubt. I have never laid eyes on her with my real mind. She could even be MORE real than real, even. Fucking Platonic. The never changing Real Shit, yo. Hell, even a fucking underlying symbol, as Monsieur Beautrilland would have it. But hey! Shit. Alright. Hardworlders, I can feel the gears clunking and the jake-brake jamming the Universe into the appropriate Logical Gear and, yes, I am <i>still</i> here in Brooklyln and even am, in fact, a little frightened by the whole motherfucker. Where's it going to end?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Where indeed?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Who knows? Since I'm dropping names here, I'll tell you who knows: Slavov Zizek. But I have no recourse to that Slovenian super-trust fund of absolute knowledge. Man. That motherfucker. . He will give me no advice, he will not be my own private Merlin. Trust me, I have made advance after advance after advance. And that totally blows, 'cause now is the time for a man like that in a capacity like that for a a dude like me who just happens to <i>be </i>me. If he could just be swayed to tend to me, perhaps I could begin to make cogent, well thought-out decisions. Why won't Zizek agree to be my handler?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">That son of a bitch. Anyway. Enough of all these digressions! Your time is valuable. and I am here getting too drunk too early here on this Sunday here in fashionable Williamsburg, Brooklyn. And Wright just got here along with Jeremy, my post-fantasy cuddle buddy. And hey, guess what? We're gonna eat some tacos. Do not fret, do not wring your hands, I'll order you guys a spread worthy of your great reputation. You will see and understand how the Real Gods dine. Believe it.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Shit. Strangely, I went to the Real Mexico. I laid in the sun. I tasted tacos beyond my reckoning. It was borderline trans-dimenional...A taco fantasy of sorts. Unicorns. And lo, a reckoning did go down. These things do not happen in a vacuum. Shit reverberates. Even in sunny Mexico, it is, indeed, a Hardworld. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">One may even venture to say, <i>especially </i>in Mexico. But fuck, pontificating just gets me stuck in strange spots. My abilities are already hitting The Wall. And I am not an elegant creature. My blood is already carelessly imprinted nigh on just about fucking everything. There is , truly, a bad Moon risin'. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And this Hardworld has got me by the balls, guys. Jesus! I am just blindsided and shit I'm all-aghast and brainlessly righting myself against my own self. A blitzkrieg cauldron of contrary idiocy! A venerable hail of bullets cloaked in various impurities. The world may be against me, but I am it's staunchest ally. But I digress. Understand, I guess. I am using this fucker as a certain sort of therapy.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And it all gets ever so much more strange, and ever so much more twisted. Jesus! The Falcon has made the kill shot, and the flames are intruding from all directions. Me, I'm just hanging, enjoying this moment and this fine view. But the Emperor is here too, and man, he is Lame Company. No matter. Part of the Bargain. So hey, let's relax and make a home here. A throw-pillow here, a Monet there. The coziest little imminently exploding fully-operational battle station in the Universe. Fuck it, why not? I have a round of drinks ready. Let us celebrate. Cheers!</p>stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-11691506977524513952011-01-28T06:36:00.000+09:002011-01-28T06:41:57.033+09:00Latin Holiday<iframe name="fairplayer" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" width="220" height="380" src="http://official.fm/track/202113?fairplayer=large"></iframe><br /><br /><br />Last night I came home to my girlfriend and my pal Seth,who works at Freakbeat Records, setting up to do a podcast. I helped them set up the mic and turntable situation and sat on my couch and listened to Nerds talk about records. Enjoy.<br /><br />GeorgeBlackeyed Donkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10721653984778224460noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-89509194469294899312011-01-20T06:04:00.000+09:002011-01-20T06:15:14.729+09:00Hello From Los Angeles!<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/8288895?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&color=ffffff" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/8288895">A HIKE WITH GEORGE</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/brianoutland">Brian Outland</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br />George Jensen here ready to start blogging for the Hardworlders. I am gonna start out with a video of me on my favorite hike. Enjoy!Blackeyed Donkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10721653984778224460noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-1097090514698640732011-01-14T03:13:00.000+09:002011-01-14T03:25:47.212+09:00Travel TimeSitting here with a Korean face mask covering my face. Gots to keep my face moisturizer on. Heading out of here come February 1st. So it looks like I'll be packing up my shite and heading out of Gangsterfornia. Who knows when I'll return. Come February 2nd I'll be in Shottingham, UK, to stay with Frazer the Amazer, who lives in Robin Hood's old stomping grounds. We'll be looting from the rich and giving to the poor, headbutting our way through the UK. I'm pretty stoked cuz I've never been to the UK in my life. Don't care too much for London. You've seen one major city, you've seen them all. Definitely on the agenda will be some cider and some pub action and some more cider. Cricket and tea time should be good as well.<br /><br />Then it's off to Shanghai via Istanbul. Yup, going to stop in Istanbul on the way out. Although it's only in the airport, should be cool just to say "hey man, I was in Turkey." I'm headed out to Shanghai to teach at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shanghai_International_Studies_University">SISU</a>. Hopefully if all goes as planned, I'll be 30 grand deeper in the hole and working on an MA in international Relations at the same time. Loads of work and play in the works. Stay tuned for pics and other fun shits and giggles. The pay will be crap, but maybe I'll get hitched. Who knows? Wish me luck, because my last attempt at China was a fucking disaster.JFhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129717569642715145noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-11481886598216522732011-01-09T14:47:00.000+09:002020-05-13T11:04:21.972+09:00Here To Win The Game.<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">If, as they say, we are all God's Children, then I have a very, very disappointed Parent way up there, way up high in the sky. What He must think, sitting there on high, watching His shit-faced hybrid jackal/human/junebug/village idiot creation unfurl and lunge and fall and generally malfunction right in the face of His Divine Wisdom. I'm sure he's seen worse, but man, believe it, it's still gotta hurt. It ain't easy being the Father. I suspect so, anyway.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It seems that I am destined to meet up with you guys under these circumstances. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Staying in the pocket this time. Even, deliberate pacing and descriptions are gonna rue the day. No more of this maniac hacking and unfiltered mental onrush. Content. Discipine! Well, one can dream, eh? My muse is not of that nature, evidently. And my Muse is not pretty: Sharp teeth. Vicious Stench. Steel claws. She is 100% vile, very obnoxious and will one day lord of my Dead Body. What a chronic, violent beast! But, you know, we gotta take what we are given. Thus it is said, and ever thus shall it be. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And if you think The Muse is weird, just imagine The Choir. What a grotesque gallery of Knuckleheads there!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Righto! I am back in New York after heading down to Texas to bring in the Holidays. Characteristic of my style, it was celebratory. I was in the strongest company. It is always cool to Dentonize. Dallas depresses the dog-shit out of me, but there was good people to see in that place too. But here I am. Again. This metropolis. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But nobody here is a stranger to The Metropolis, eh? Tokyo. Seoul. LA. We tend to opt for the fast lane, us Hardworlders. A sophisticated bunch dedicated to High Culture. There's probably a french phrase that would sound and look way cool for that. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Hack, wail, wheeze, moan. Hurray!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And man oh man. Why is it that I approach this business everytime with a heart chock-full of regret? A night bourne of poor choices and marred and maimed by my shit instincts? An awful mourning? It is a sad state of affairs when you are your worst enemy. But lo, Hardworlders, 'tis all mine. So might as well embrace it. All this toppling, all this instability. I had cooler shit in my head for all this, by the way. Then, whammo! Arizona congresswoman down! Then breakfast. The world is moving fast. And I am all drunk in the mix. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And there's the rub: it is a very, very twisted feeling. This wake in the Fierce quest for Absolution. The deep Wellspring, the terrible quilt of guilt and shame. Evidently, they are, both of 'em, intertangled in the ol' noggin. Who would've thought? But Man. There is a hideous purity in this wake Of The Storm. The beach is swept away. You can hear the birds, the lizards, and the apes. <i>Nature is back, motherfucker!</i> And though the shame and sense of self is sulking and the ego is lying all maimed and raped in the hospital ward, the Awareness of everything Eternal is elevated. It's as if you are privy to a preview of the world without you.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Or, it's like, what else can I do to myself? I did that? And I'm still here? Somehow? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But let us not tempt fate, Hardworlders! Never a good idea, that. On a sunny day many moons past, Joel and I did just that, and I found myself sleeping on a roll of toilet paper in a very, very cold cell in Grandbury, Texas. But, in all candor, I do not regret that day. There is something to be said for driving at top speed down I-35, windows down, the stereo cranked to a very appropriate volume, good laughs, good company, and an open beer between your legs. In hindsight, it all gets justified. Enough distance and the screaming...just...fades away. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Yes, I manufactured as much comfort as could be mustered. The drunk tank is never a fun place, but I tried to settle in and make a home out of it. Nonetheless. I really, really, do not like the idea of incarceration. So I gotta ride this line. Once again. It's like my favorite soul animal. the Buffalo. Buffalo meets a ballerina. The elegant Ballerafallo! The Blind Charge segueing into a brutal pirouette. Right there on the precipice. All of it in a dreadful lateral plunge soaked in maniacal alcoholism. A delicious marinade for The Fool Endeavor. Hoofs kicking up a billowing cloud. In this case, a bloody, bilious cloud of Eloquence. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Jesus. This is all getting too cerebral, eh? Maybe even boring. This is also something that I do not want. Not for you guys, anyway. I give myself free license to lame out on the rest of IT, but never ever ever on the shining stars in the Hard Firmanent. Alright. Easing down. Time for drinks. Jacob, welcome to our fine forum. What are you thirsty for? I have no soju, are you cool with whiskey? Maybe a beer. Hell, got 'em both coming your way. Heeeeeeeeeeere you go. Enjoy. Daug, I have prepared you something that I'm sure will do the trick. An Irish Car-Bomb. Chug-a-lug good buddy! Graybill, well, you've probably had your fill of saki, so I opted for something pure and brutal. Here, drink this entire bottle of Everclear. That's it. Don't give me that look. Finish it. Great! What? Yeah I know, they were a really terrible band. Just let me just snort this and I'm going to get down and serious here with this 151. This is, after-all, a serious night. We are deep into the Business. What shall we settle first? North Korea? Is that all empty rhetoric and public posturing or is there real validity in the threat? What about this Arizona congress-lady? Jesus. We live in divided times. I guess they all are, but still...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Alright, on to lighter fare. Have any of you seen Black Swan? My good Disappointed Deity, you gotta. It is fucking incredible. It's like hanging onto an electric fence for two hours. Except it's kind of exquisite, the pain. True Grit was great, but Black Swan will still be around in ten years. Aronofsky. Goddamn. Portman. Good double backflip in slow motion goddamn. What was that? No, I have not seen Tron. I was going to, but now...kind of scared. I may just cruise around on the <i>idea</i> I have of Tron. I think it may be better that way.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Alright. Where was I? One pretty girl winks at you in the street, and The Universe just melts down into dust and rust. Everything just goes fuck-all entropic. The brain instantly goes French, submits to the menace of the Ego and His Genitals. Bones in the ol' clockwork. Anyway. Not your concern. Gotta make an effort here. This a Hardworlders entry, goddammit! Nothing less than the finest locutions will do. How do you live, Joel? This is the regular state of affairs for you. How do you manage to get anything done?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">There are other reasons behind this perpetual state. This self-inflicted scorching. I guess that's what this whole shebang is all about. Getting into the mind. Dark rumblings. A very delicate process. Not about the comings and goings of the day, etc. What is there really to say about that? Wake. Masturbate. Eat. Walk around. Discombobulation. Events. Routine. Physical waste. Applied effort, to something. Eat. Strong drink. Deluded optimism. Dissolution. Lights out. Repeat. Over and over. Phoenix from the ashes. This shit happens everywhere. Until it doesn't anymore. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And that's when the real shit goes down. Or not. Who knows? If they yank that mystery out of our lives then man, oh man, are we Fucked. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Categorically.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So, until then, might as well dip into all this murk and all this mire that is the briars and the Great Thicket of the consciousness. It is a painful saga, absolutely, but the only real post-modern choice. When you're situated at the top of the Grand Pyramid, the weirdo masonic Cosmic Eye comes to rest squarely on You. Hm. Hold on. Wait a second- I don't own a Lexus, I sleep on a couch and I am definitively unemployed...perhaps I'm being a bit hasty on the pyramid bit. Maybe I've got a few stairs to stagger up still. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And that's what we call Living the Dream here in this Hardworld. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Struggle. Grapple. Burp. Excrete. Repeat. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Happy New Year!</p>stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-26295095616508718702011-01-05T15:18:00.001+09:002011-01-05T15:42:05.174+09:00Thanks for the invite.So now I'm a hardworlder. I'm honored. Thank you. I'm not in Korea though, but I did make it into Koreatown in LA today for some Galbitang, given account of how cold it has been recently, I never felt a stronger urge to eat some galbitang. Then I went to a Korean Sauna. Now here in Ktown LA, there is an abundance of Korean Saunas. I must have chosen the right one because when I went in, and I got the familiar "Oshosayo!" I instantly replied with "Anyonghaseyo." Then to stir up some shits and giggles, I whipped out my Korean drivers license from when I lived in Korea (I was supposed to return it to immigration upon departure from Korea) she actually scratched her head. So it's not that funny, but she did get some Korean out of me and for humoring her, I got 10 free guest passes. She called up someone on the phone and was like "yada yada weigukin chingu" something something. Then she gave me some "chingu cards," (e.g. guest passes). So I'll be sure to Kspa again in the near future. Thanks for adding me, uh, I don't have anything else of interest to say. If you want to watch some videos I made, feel free.<br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/jacob7207?feature=mhum#p/u/12/EjMwUsM8XoQ"><br /></a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/jacob7207?feature=mhum"><span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">I like to make movies.</span></a><br /><br />Be brutal.JFhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11129717569642715145noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-26588734675880845312011-01-03T20:22:00.000+09:002011-01-03T20:22:29.252+09:00Welcome to the new memberAs the so far silent administrator of the Hardworld I'd like to take one of my few vocal moments to give a hearty welcome to the newest member of this carnal exploration of death, humanity and the outright satanistic practice of listening to metal music. Mr. Jacob!! Come on down sir and welcome to the pack. We're a bunch of lone wolves scattered about the dark woods of the real world, ripping at the flesh and fabric of time and existence, spilling the blood of the guilty and innocent alike, howling and eating the soft flesh of the forgiven. From your unique vantage point in the vast network of the universe we invite you to rip and tear through the minds of our limited numbers, snapping bones, drinking whisky and eating the children of your enemies. Along with the rest of the hardworlders I feel honored to have such a ruthless and fearful individual as yourself in our midst.joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00990588777307853884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-47254900663843125232010-12-28T19:46:00.000+09:002010-12-28T20:14:47.814+09:00Year End Lists 2010Here's a list of my favorite year end best music lists. I like lists, and that's why I compiled a list of those lists, HARDWorlders. In order of loves: <div><br /></div><div><a href="http://stereogum.com/596411/haunting-the-chapels-top-50-albums-of-2010/franchises/haunting-the-chapel/">Haunting the Chapel</a> (on Stereogum. Stereogum is a decent site, and similar to pitchfork, but better. They also have this metal blog by Brandon Stosuy. He also writes about non metal music on there too. Good stuff.)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.myspace.com/officialdarkthrone/blog/541049007">Fenriz</a> (of Darkthrone. His blog and his picks of the year.)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://aquariusrecords.org/cat/3625.html">Aquarius Records</a> (my favorite record store, and their lists are usually metal mixed with indie rock, world music, experimental, etc....)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.boomkat.com/charts.cfm">Boomkat</a> (another great record store, but one I have never been to. Just online ordering style. Keeps my ears tuned to the electronic side of things. They also get reggae, sometimes metal, and classical/experimental)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.metalsucks.net/2010/12/17/worst-year-ever-all-of-our-2010-year-end-shit-in-one-place/">MetalSucks</a> (just got turned onto this site recently. A good one.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Two other sites I am waiting for year end lists from:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.peacedogman.com/">Peacedogman</a> (tons of super nerd lists like, best albums of 1972, and the Buyer's Guide section for their favorite bands. Definitely on the punk and metal side of things - old, but also new stuff as well.)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.teethofthedivine.com/site/">Teeth of the Divine</a> (writing is probably the worst out of all of these sites, but I still check it once a week for metal happenings and reviews).</div>Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-9748889258424936232010-12-14T07:46:00.000+09:002020-05-13T11:04:22.111+09:00Misguided But Gilded All The Same<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Hardworlders! Jesus. The Bender. The High logic is upon me and it is perched upon its Unmovable Rock, staring me down one mere inch in front of my swollen face and yes, goddamn, there's its creaking clenched teeth and I am right now taking in a deep inhalation of it's characteristic stench which is.. just... deliriously desirable and one just has no time, no time AT ALL to ask the kind of sensible questions a wise man must ask. Such as: Should one spend money for these things? Perhaps you'd be more alluring to all those females with your wits and your looks unmarred? And, most profound of all, <i>Wirtala</i>, why don't you avoid potentially dying? Drowning in these little whirlpools in what, ostensibly anyway, is the toast of the civilized World?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But the impulse is, well, pulsating and the drive to the Light On High is on. No time for any doubt. Stimulus, response: This is the wise way of the June Bug. And June Bugs may be the purest life form The World has ever Known. As in: There's the goal, I know where it's at, however, I don't know exactly how to work this sweet gilded chariot God gave me. So it's all vigor and faith and impulse and into the sky I go! Lot's of competing stimuli. Man. Look at all them lights! I want them all. Alright. Let us not dither here, Christ, no dallying, let's get into all these dazzling claims. And....YOUCH! DAMN! Alright. Settle down. Shake it out. Ouch. No matter, though. Still going for it. No real harm done. Nothing damaged. Just a bit shocked. A bad decision, running that route. Plenty of alternatives, plenty of other things to blindly charge into. I got this. Please do not worry. Your hero is still barreling through time and space, mind welded to it's eventuality. It's all eventual. Right? This shit will pan out. Just gotta systematically eliminate the alternatives through my special idiot, deductive process. Honor thy process! Rest assured, though, I will arrive at my destination. No idea what to do upon said arrival, but I will concern myself with these trivialities when the time is right. Please, let us not frazzle the mind of this noble bug. This trajectory was laid out smooth and tall by The Architect. Though the lumps do hurt. Man. Seriously.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">An adage that should be common wisdom. The process bit.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Will it make it? The Wisdom?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And hey, Hardworlders, we are all noble beasts, yes? Jesus. Look at me. I feel ridiculous. Here I am, blathering non-stop and I have turned a blind eye to your needs. What a goddamn awful host. Sorry about that. Joel, take that coat off. Daug, I am getting your drink ready as we speak. Don't worry buddy, pouring 'em stroooong tonight. Why so tense? Yes, I know. It is indeed frosty out there. How about a nice, hot mulled wine to unravel with? Joel, yes, of course I am. I have total confidence that your written word will burn the very iron of our surroundings. Your recitatations never leave a dry eye in the house. Hot heat. But...perhaps you should belt this out to me in a free fall. A dive in the sky. No constraints there, brother. A thought. But a lot of preperation. Fuck it. No Sweat. We will tear down the Universe with Your Verse. The Triumph of Beauty. Graybillian Electric Eloquence! I've always considered that your nickname anyway. Privately, of course. Anyway. Let it all come down. Let me hand this beverage to Daug. Ok. Is that ok? The beverage? To your refined sensibilities? Sophisticated man in an international town. That's how I describe you to all my new acquaintances. What? Yeah, they're ok. Ain't no legends, though. But they'll do. Only one Daug on this rock. Wait. Really? Why Jeff, you never expressed the sentiment that you've been an opera aficionado. It's all making so much sense now. I totally get it. Well, since you offered, Joel well, YES, I'll do a line. Why not? We are friends. Friends in the best of times, no less. Let's get appropriate. Yes, Jeff. Of course, please procure a pipe. Oh wait- I gotta an apple right here. Cool! We can do just fine with this little guy. Yeah, I was gonna eat it but, you know, I'll get another...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Oh sure. Why not? I am enjoying the good times. Yes, and with the most elegant company at that. So alright. Say. Guys. I'm gonna youtube some Zeppelin. It's what I'm into these days. Everybody's got there predilections, right? Daug, you can attest. AC/DC . Man. God. Dialectics. Hither and Thither. These poles. Let's occupy the strange zone in the middle. Our Anyway. But hey. Once more. Devolving. Getting tangenty. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Best to stay on task. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">These New York City Benders. They have a way. A different process that operates with an ease that just catapults you effortlessly one day into the next. A vile magic carpet ride. Vile! Though also quite charming. You just...slide onto a different wavelength. Justification is easily obtained. No problem on that front. One second, you're ordering your first shot and first thing you know, then you're waking up in a pool of chicken blood and sweat and your throat's all raw and the ravages of the night are just staring at you in the mirror. Nick Nolte comes to mind. All in all, a pretty good time. Except for Thanksgiving. That one got treacherous. I did away with any wisdom I happened to have on me. Seemed smart at the time? Downward Death Spiral? Anyway, I strangled that deaf, dumb and blind underground animal. My Conscience. A very particular brand of instant violence and yes, as it happens, ah contrare bonjour, one <i>can</i> destroy matter. Soul matter. You can eliminate it with the Great Hammer. My Lord, how I wielded That Hammer of the Gods. I rode my ship to new lands. I am my Overlord. Sitting right on Myself. Yikes! I've been through some weird one's, <i>believe it</i>, but I was very sore after that one. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Like a little band I follow called Led Zeppelin, I come from a long line of no-quitters, Hardworlders. I ascended that bucking bronco the next night. Wild fury in the streets, I. Unlike Zeppelin I lack a personalized airplane. Or a limo, with a driver.And, to my great shame, I have never inserted a mudshark into a beautiful woman. But hopefully, with a little time and great compassion from the two of you I will rectify all these shortcomings. Ultimately, all I ask, Sweet Lord: Just keep me out of the slammer. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But hey, the task?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It is, however, at this moment, very difficult to acsertain said task. The modern predicament. What a weird one. What is, indeed, Our Task? What is the goal after all those glorious hurdles? Happiness? Signifigance? As in: Legacy? The great cumulative result of all our idiot futile endeavours? No. Try as we might, and, Lord, we so goddamn go for all that, we are anchored. One whimpery perspective, scraping our thoroughly debased teeth and brain matter against the Whole. How can we win? Where is it all gonna go? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Where indeed? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">All we got, just like everybody else, is the next day.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">But I'm starting to understand that, yes, I might have to start scrawling pentagrams and slitting suitable animal throats and orgasming at a desirable and strategic time to truly engage with the the dark and totally mystical Universe. A lot of hoops to soar through, a hell of a lotta occult connections to make. Very detailed oriented, all this. Dark logistics, yo. But evidently kinda necessary for the Big Stage. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">One has to to what one has to do, right?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So there it is. I am ascending into the Forbidding Above via the Gilded Chariot of booze and blind hope. The Gifts from God. Right into the beautiful blue sky. Lumps, dumps and chumps in my wake. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Man. I should get some real substance into all this. New York life, etc. But, then again, I left everybody way back in time on the ferry in Whittier. I have to catch both of you up on that shit. But evidently, that story is gotta wait. Fuck. Sorry about that. Tales to be told. The mental machine is pumping out jams that can, at the very best, be termed uneven. Can't quite rule this orchestra. Unruly. Undisciplined. Chock full of heart, though. How do you make it to Carnegie Hall? I have this rock and roll to deal with. And this manic alcoholism. My Grand Style. Bejeweled, bewildered and totally bonkers. King of the Elegant Pageant. In this asylum. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Christ. This entry is full of holes. No central narrative. Barely any point. But when you're in in the midst of The Bender these kind of concerns just get tossed out the window. They get defenestrated. Concern in general, chucked out with nary a backward glance of the mind's eye. But hey, here it is, nonetheless, Hardworlders. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And thus and thus. And a little more thus. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p>stockwirtalahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13248609630563814029noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-44982450499160956962010-12-08T20:27:00.000+09:002011-01-12T13:11:23.017+09:00RodAnd I ain't talkin' about Rodd Lunt (you know who you are). I'm talkin' Rod, as in Rod Stewart. Or The King. I really like....no, love Rod Stewart (and Rod Lunt for that matter). There are many reasons why Rod Stewart should not be dismissed. Number 1: he's a great singer. And with the right material, you will hear his golden pipes in the proper light. Number 2: he is a great song interpreter. Lots of artists get hammered over from people that think song interpretation isn't talented because "they didn't write the song". I call bullshit on that. A great song interpreter can make the song his or her own. Elvis was great at that. So was Johnny Cash. Most country singers don't write their own songs, and that's okay by me. They don't have to as long as they pick the right ones. You here shit all the time from artists pass their prime picking terrible songs to interpret. Willie is definitely guilty of this, and Rod? Fuck yes. And he's also guilty for writing some of the worst music in pop music history. But don't hold that against him, and I say this because of his first 4 solo albums (and maybe The Faces, but I still have never delved into them much despite my Rod love). <div><br /><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548283297957564802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKCWFnk44-EBo_wPYGQwAiL6LpV6qkB9Rr_L_ABN5UI3KTR6mv2uJ2GFoJ_oOZVUhyphenhyphenxYmUWMdQk3HvM7l67Cy7jvuS-719-LuMQIm-HHB8AN1WixeT2iDaDoIdKWqt0kSjNedflGbtVvJv/s200/The+Rod+Stewart+Album.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>First up is "An Old Raincoat Won't let you down" (1969) or self titled in the states. This is the blueprint for the next 3 records. Rod is backed up by most of the Faces during this time, and they make a ragged and loose country blues racket. In some ways they pull it off better than the Stones. This could be because of their working class background (the Stones were art school kids). Anyway, the lead off is a cover of the Stones "Street Fighting Man" which sounds, pretty dang different until they launch into the chorus towards the end of the song. Almost a complete makeover. I have to admit, though, I don't go back to this album as much as the others. "Street Fighting Man" is definitely worth a listen, though.</div><div><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548283104294472658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobvJ1dECVwkndyj72ur0Y6mCmiB67N9Ov9cNO4OSnUKiP20Fr33rq0MJJoxfTlWOeN-Mtn6gdWIgGt4pNpvrcbhUK9muY0Dtk6TXtl0rnJ-l_yAqHKmdgBmNdZQgmlTnKO4Hx2As3SdGw/s200/Gasoline+Alley.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>Next, from '70, is Gasoline Alley which might be my favorite Rod album. This is pretty solid throughout with favorites "Gasoline Alley", "Only a Hobo", "Country Comforts"....damn. It's all good. Ragged and rich blues country folk stompin' music. And it makes you feel great. Maybe that's reason number 3 to like Rod: his music makes you feel good. When he has the right back up that is.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548283204752323890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 198px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSr71HqIsy1PrQthyySe9-23WqezEIqEHpqrrLs5jv7072mmnj1uoZBeq0zE_4VVBKkUYSDkiOm4qCTTZJKExjFsrywonIfRTuk3PpdtNUVpaVWni9h0z5Q-dSYph4b4SGiYu0L6heAjTi/s200/Every+Picture+Tells+A+Story.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>Then there's the classic: "Every Picture Tells a Story" (1971). Yes, it is a classic, and I really like it, but I'd pick Gasoline Alley or Never A Dull Moment over this one. It's pretty much the same format, musically, as the last two, but it doesn't feel as solid. I guess just preference, really. And it's got its classics for sure: "Maggie May" which is just a fantastic song, "Seems like a Long time", "Tomorrow is a Long Time", etc. etc....blah blah.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548282995345126354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTojCJFpauIbixORsNEhx3eCEeb8rFZ2q0GJ18zoNU68cZXcioKniaPTQm838ljS00W8bSq3nd8kFVNEBwPFYjXIA1VjjSEaRTT-Py3BfIHnYgYszfd87ccuSfgl5FMQ9UUUqdovv46k9/s200/Never+A+Dull+Moment.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>Last: "Never a Dull Moment"(1972). Which is true. It's really not dull, but you wouldn't know it from the ironic album cover. Probably one of my favorite album covers. I can't decide if I like this one or Gasoline Alley better. Look: all 4 are worth buying. Just get it over with already. But, Never a Dull Moment is the first I ever bought. So, maybe it's my favorite. Anyway, opener "True Blue"- great rocker with a singalong chorus (like many of his songs), "Mama You been on My Mind", Maggie May part 2 which is called "You wear it well" and it's almost as good as "Maggie...". Great one, and I guess the end of an era, really. Next was "Smiler" which is universally panned despite having The Faces on board again. Maybe everyone was losing their "id" or whatever. Anyway Faces broke up not long after it, and Rod went on a solo tear and a move to America. Some of that stuff I really like. Even "Do ya think I'm Sexy" and some of his early eighties new wave-ish stuff ("Young Turks") ain't bad, but he has reached so many nadirs that it's hard to believe sometimes that this is the same man that did some truly great rock n roll.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not gonna post his albums for download. You know where to get 'em if you want 'em. But I will put up some video clips:</div></div><div><br /></div><div>This first one showcases his voice.</div><div><br /></div><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HLBFyS2hlhw?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HLBFyS2hlhw?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><div>The Faces pretend playing n having fun on Top of the Pops. The soccer ball at the end was a part of their stage act, and reminded folks of their working class roots. <div><br /></div><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TEoc13bwCw0?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TEoc13bwCw0?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div></div>Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-32490722125649342942010-12-06T20:47:00.000+09:002011-01-12T13:14:53.180+09:00GHOST!!!!!!!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eoSapJaiK3g9w3tm-fWQzjj5XeCKqilgJ1Ot7AMMcU093yVtzhsuWxrckat_K6hdB8IWmk1JAjy80K0ODKrP8cu5FzyPPTpXIuUp5E0273uIziKDaX1kD0awyzdJkRZs3bzIrPCa4FHc/s1600/Ghost-Opus-Eponymous.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547538973869958994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 199px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eoSapJaiK3g9w3tm-fWQzjj5XeCKqilgJ1Ot7AMMcU093yVtzhsuWxrckat_K6hdB8IWmk1JAjy80K0ODKrP8cu5FzyPPTpXIuUp5E0273uIziKDaX1kD0awyzdJkRZs3bzIrPCa4FHc/s200/Ghost-Opus-Eponymous.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And not the Japanese psychedelic band. But some crazy devil worshipping Swedes. However, this is NOT black metal. More like Blue Oyster Cult and Judas Priest and maybe....Boston? I don't know, but it's catchy as shit. I heard about this from the great <a href="http://stereogum.com/589472/ghost-ritual/franchises/haunting-the-chapel/">Haunting the Chapel</a> blog on Stereogum, and there's a song on that blog too, so I'm not gonna post the whole album like I have for some stuff. Just listen to that song on the blog, and I guarantee that it will be stuck in your head for years to come. The album cover rules, too. And here's a video clip I found, but, strangely not a whole video. Not sure why. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GxmWM-8ZVYA?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GxmWM-8ZVYA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-30334312014772340482010-11-17T21:50:00.000+09:002010-11-17T21:50:24.660+09:00Back in hard world action .joelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00990588777307853884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-79639960899064461902010-11-10T19:34:00.000+09:002010-11-10T19:58:59.514+09:00Video RoundupThe most interesting videos I seen lately. Yo, Check.<div><br /></div><div>1. Susan Boyle "Perfect Day" Directed by Lou Reed. Unbelievable.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dx1bleUOj80?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dx1bleUOj80?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><div>2. Nachtmystium "Every Last Drop"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/16656980" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0"></iframe><p>3. Gary War "Hollow Futures"</p><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/16664357" width="400" height="220" frameborder="0"></iframe><br /><br />4. Major Lazer "Pon de Floor" in case you forgot about watching this at Fara's about a year ago.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/5936810" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0"></iframe><br /><br /><div>5. Kylesa "Tired Climb" another metal song just for good measure. Though they don't sound as metal as they used to.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/15623685" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0"></iframe><br /><br />Peace!Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-39872488591611466032010-11-06T10:30:00.000+09:002010-11-06T11:00:21.143+09:00Jaws: The Revenge - The roaring shark<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2nFTueOvX7GY6q1AcMtmA1C8U__X1YceF3VFH5R2YRZBMO_YEnN90plLf2q9EsR4wnLBbXcBT2LNSHsfYoz0TbW00IU2V-1zPj4Yum5cRY19EsPzWHzj59CFMfgOr8zfwcndo0OVGz6s/s1600/6a00ccff843972985d00fa967f55df0003-500pi.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2nFTueOvX7GY6q1AcMtmA1C8U__X1YceF3VFH5R2YRZBMO_YEnN90plLf2q9EsR4wnLBbXcBT2LNSHsfYoz0TbW00IU2V-1zPj4Yum5cRY19EsPzWHzj59CFMfgOr8zfwcndo0OVGz6s/s320/6a00ccff843972985d00fa967f55df0003-500pi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536249682967886834" /></a>It's a HardWorld. That's why I watched all 4 Jaws movies, n here's my all too brief thoughts about 'em:<br /><div><br /></div><div>Jaws - Last time I saw this was when I was 10 or something. A classic. Nice pacing, and good characters. But, kinda boring cuz of that too. The build up to the finale is nicely done.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jaws 2 - Boring. Has all the same cast members, and about the same theme of a misunderstood lone wolf shark killah and the city politicians that want everybody to get eaten by a shark. The city is wrong again and the sherriff is right again. And too many teenagers complaining.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jaws 3 - Or 3-D. I saw this one in the theaters back in the day. It ruled back then. Almost as good now. Actually, it's not that good, but more entertaining than the second. There's some weird surrealist sounds in this one, but Jaws looks way stiffer in this one. Too robotic.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jaws The Revenge - I thought it had a made for TV vibe to it, and later I found out the director is a made for tv kind of guy. I have to admit, it's kind of an effective drama, (one of the Boyd family sons die from Jaws early on, and everyone is sad and trying to move on in life). What makes it ridiculous is the shark revenge theme (on the Boyd family, or Boyle...whatever they're called), and the last 10-15 minutes. They re-did the ending several times, and the one I saw had the shark blown to bits, but no one knows why. I think he had a bomb placed in him by the fake Jamaican dude. The other cut is one where the shark gets stabbed. Both don't make much sense, and have terrible editing, but if you appreciate B-movies then I think you'll like it, and, in fact, love it. Here's both clips. Oh, best part: Jaws roars like Godzilla in 'em. That rules.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YqiWWmAEfTA?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YqiWWmAEfTA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't find the blown to bits ending. This will do.</div>Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6913218203254303546.post-908132155629564992010-10-27T20:02:00.000+09:002010-10-27T20:43:02.507+09:00Gregory Isaacs - The Cool Ruler - R.I.P.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-Q7R-EuKlfYKefBrH84rvDSAtJpdN1d4ySq8eidv-QlDCGI0eR-NYm0VpmZg6JzVBemYfPGgnhZk9303bj4dwRdlStjjqLLtMZZQss7IUh3DRfmM92YzVcg9VpG7MyLGW6KTXctTj_0K/s1600/gregory+isaacs+night+nurse.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-Q7R-EuKlfYKefBrH84rvDSAtJpdN1d4ySq8eidv-QlDCGI0eR-NYm0VpmZg6JzVBemYfPGgnhZk9303bj4dwRdlStjjqLLtMZZQss7IUh3DRfmM92YzVcg9VpG7MyLGW6KTXctTj_0K/s320/gregory+isaacs+night+nurse.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532689992235698434" /></a><br />Alright, Hardworlders. You should definitely KNOW this guy. Ultra smooth voice. Seductive. Looking for his Night Nurse. Unfortunately, the man died 2 days ago. Long battle with lung cancer, which I thought wasn't too surprising since I'm sure he loved the ganja, but then I found out he had a decades long battle with 'other' drugs. Cocaine and crack and crap like that. He'd also been arrested a bunch of times for various crimes. Perhaps he did these crimes because he is the ultimate "lonely lover". Anyway, his eighties stuff is some of my favorite, but he was working in the scene since the sixties. He also penned the first "lovers rock" track called "My Only Lover". Now, I haven't heard that song, but surely it can't be the first "lovers rock" song. There's been tons of rockin' love ballads inna reggae style before. What I normally associate lovers rock with is 1980s-early 90s England. I guess mostly English Jamaicans. However, listening to Gregory Isaacs stuff from the eighties, he definitely pioneered the sound, and it is a wonderful sound. It's a shame that he went as young as he did. <div><br /></div><div>Gregory Isaacs: July 15, 1951 - October 25, 2010. </div><div><br /></div><div>Below is all the Isaacs I have on my computer here in Korea. Back home, I have "Lonely Lover" and "More Gregory" on LP, as well as "Night Nurse" which is below. The other tracks are from several compilations that date 1979-1993.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://rapidshare.com/files/427416593/Gregory_Isaacs.zip">Night Nurse </a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://rapidshare.com/files/427417213/Isaacs_compilation_tracks.zip">Isaacs compilation tracks</a></div>Daughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10615156256528708946noreply@blogger.com0