Friday, December 10, 2004

NP:The Germs-Communist Eyes

it hasn't stopped raining since tuesday.

-i can almost feel the bells and fiber glass leaves of the noose that is the holiday season tightening around my neck, hands being burnt by the light bulbs of fake candles.

-my dinner is attacking my insides with post digestion acids and i'm digging through MP3s that have been on my computer for months, because i'm too damn lazy and cheap to buy CDRs.

-my appetite for various forms of punk music has grown in the last 6 months since i started playing in the Communion, and i feel like a total poser asshole for not discovering the brillance of bands like the Germs, Rudimentary Peni, Disrupt, Nausea, the Righteous Pigs, and others until recently.

-there are so many books, albums, and DVDs i want to get that it's repulsive.

-anyone who doesn't at least appreciate the music of Tom Waits is in fact a completely useless sack of asshole.

-punk in it's many forms and transgressive authors have saved my life through it's complete ruiniation.

NP:Nausea-System Break Down

Thursday, December 09, 2004

"Dimebag" Darrell Lance Abbott Aug. 20, 1966 - Dec. 8, 2004

so once again i find myself awakening to the news of a musician's death.

when i was being weened off the expired breast milk of modern rock and pop music, Pantera was one of the many bands (maybe the leaders of the pack) that lurred me away from the hyper-sexual sinking ship of bland radio hits. along with Slayer, Fear Factory, Sepultura, and a few others, Pantera pointed me in the direction that would lead to the discovery of many of many forms of Underground music (i might never have discovered the poetic nihilsm of Eyehategod if i had not heard testimonials from the less enlightened Pantera listeners about how they were "slow and shitty").

Far Beyond Driven, the Great Southern Trendkill, these were the albums that showed me there was indeed music heavier and angrier than Nine Inch Nails. i of course later discovered that there was music heavier and angrier than Pantera, but those ablums along with a select few random tracks from the band's catalouge still ignite some sort of primitive, drunken 16 year old, buried inside for the last few years by sheets of attempted literacy and expanding musical desires and boredoms.

now the man responsible for the chunks and squeals of "Becoming" is dead, shot point blank for no real reason.

this isn't Elvis Presley having a heart attack on the crapper from all the pills and fried penut butter clogging his artieries. this isn't Layne Staley rotting in his apartment for 2 weeks after 10 years of heroin abuse. those are indeed tragic, but they were expected. it's like Hamlet, you know the people are going to die. there's just an aura of shit surrounding them and eventually it's going to strangle them to death. those were tragic in the sense that we were watching flesh slowly rot away and there was nothing we could do about it.

this is different. Dimebag was shot. on stage while getting ready to play music that he loved. it's like Animal House if John Belushi suddenly got gun downed by Flounder in the middle of saying "To-GA! To-GA!". as far as i can tell, Dimebag Darrell never hurt anybody. he always seemed to be the fun loving metal dude who liked beers and guitars. truth be told, i wasn't a fan of the last Pantera album, nor was i into Damageplan, but that is beside the point.

a guy got shot. a guy who loved to play music was gunned down as he got ready to share his enthusiasm with people who share that same passion.

there are so many people in this world who day after fucking day don't do a goddamn thing for anyone or anything. whose speech patterns are a never ending shit list of misdirected hate and irrelevant negativity. people who don't have the guts to really love something, have passion for something, so they cloak themselves in false irony and sarcastic retorts. as far as i can tell, Darrel Abbot was not one of those people. my love for Pantera's music has faded a little over the years, but this is not a fitting end for the man at all, shot to death @ 38 years old. someday maybe things will turn around and the people really deserving of hot bullets being violently shoved into their skin will get just that. until then, i say Rest In Peace you crazy red bearded Diamond.

"Dimebag" Darrell Lance Abbott Aug. 20, 1966 - Dec. 8, 2004

"Take Us With the Floods"

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

NP:The Cranberries-Linger

so my first semester @ Hovstraw is almost under my dirty non-white belt. yippee.

i think i might be in love, and once again i can't do anything about it. it's weird though, i don't feel angry about it. a little sad, maybe cahnfoosed (as the lovely Irish Siren would so sing), but not the foaming at the mouth rage i usually feel towards situations like this. guess i'm pussying out...or maybe it won't hit me until i spill my guts and she shrugs her shoulders, not even gagging at the sight of my pathetic stomach worms, gazing up at her with their vacant but sorrowful eyes, as if to say.....guts don't talk silly poo.

..yeah, there it is.

fuh-kin broads....

Sunday, December 05, 2004

i've come to the conclusion that i'm a very self absorbed writer. the dark horse in a garden of lilies.

i often write from myself and for myself. i could'nt care less if people can relate to what i'm saying, or if what i write doesn't comfort or console or point someone down a path of light and beauty. maybe that's a mean spirited view of things, but i have to be honest in saying that if my writing makes someone feel confused or disgusted or whatever, that the little nihilistic pervert inside me can't help but crack an evil smile.

i'm often confused and repulsed by the things i see in people and society, and they have yet to offer me a proper explanation, something that can tie everything together in a neat little package that i can cuddle up with and rest easy along side of, so i give them back something equally (or i guess in this case more) dissorienting.

i post my stuff here and in other places because i'm proud of it, not because i wanted to make people feel good about themselves. maybe i'm holding up a picture to gross for you too look at, or maybe i'm holding up a mirror you wish didn't reflect.
yeah, i'm flattering myself. so what? we're all self absorbed lunatics after all. introverted drama majors.

it's a destructive and lonely way to see things i know, but someone has to do it. not everyone can write idealist hippie free love manifestos about the beauty of the sun and the trees and the skies and the bunnies. not everyone can write melodramatic love letters or beautius odes to week old relationships.

just be thankful that you were born with rose colored lenses and not vomit soaked shades.