Who You Calling Boy, Boy?

The Presets - My People (dir. Kris Moyes)

It truly is something that this video makes me want to eat massive amounts of both Ecstasy and DXM. Two wildly different animals. 

Blood In, Blood Out. (Reasoning).

MDMA: The Presets' Pussy-Pounding Pulse

DXM (b/k/a cough suppressant): Terror-soaked MoonView visuals 

Wascally Wabbits End Up With Their Chests Blown Out. Period.

Also interesting is that the last time I dropped pills (after a Cage show), I drove from a club to an apartment party at 6am, rolling my face off, listening to, you guessed it, The Presets. "Are You The One" to be exact.

(Pseudo-)Synchronicity. It's What's For Dinner And Shit.

So yeah. In summation: The Presets, dope; Modular, dope; Anything that significantly and permanently alters my brain's chemistry (for better or worse), super dope. 

Reach for the lasers, Safe as fuck.

P.S. For those among you who may be new to the nightmare, further insight into my epicly horrific, rehab-inducing experiences with Dextromorphan can be found HERE.


Garnett Mims Ain't Got Shit On Me.

Dear Diary,

Last night before Morelandshire tucked me in, I found myself strangely stricken by a feral urge to hurl a shrieking newborn baby (a docile infant would do as well I suppose; as with most things I'm not very picky) into the corner of an unfurnished room.

This isn't strictly an anger thing (nb: it would moreso be a light toss than a throw), nor is it as simple as being a matter of wanting to satisfy reprehensible violent urges. I am, after all, the first to admit that my reptilian brain has gotten the upper hand on the mammalian from time to time, often in inappropriately sanitary and highly public contexts. But a bit of the hyperviolence does a body good I always say. And I do know when the RAGE is presenting itself, and this didn't seem to be one of those special moments.

The Freud Noid would posit that this is possibly a sexual thing, a matter of rePRESSion. They love to play that card, yeah? Maybe an urge stemming from formerly latent recollections of seeing interracial gangbang porn at a particularly perverted neighbor's apartment at the wee age of three? It's all connected somehow. Someway. That's what the leapfrogs say.

Whatever the igniter, the fire's been raging for no less than 12 hours now. So, as the great Warren G. Harding once said while fellating the French ambassador behind his solid oak desk: "Ain't nuttin' to it but to do it!"

Way I see it, it's a metaphysical thing more than anything else. Charity even. Let the little bastard child know from the jump that "the world is a cruel place" and that "life's a bitch and then you die." It'll thank me later.

I can see it now... 30 yrs down the road, I'll be laid up with a stoma in my throat, miserable, penniless and alone, about to fucking kick it and suddenly, a visitor. An eight foot tall, shirtless, buttfucking-werewolf-party-monster with stunna shades and 10 strippers in tow. He'll mumble his gratitude in between guzzles off his metal flask of engine degreaser, then he'll spit in my creased, Hep C-ravaged face, finger fuck one of the strippers on top of my respirator and ManDump all over an elderly nurse, just for good measure.

Practice. Theory. Practice. Theory.

Always willing to help, my equally sociopathic sister suggested that I consult a local unfit mother and, by dubious means, to be sure, procure her infant for said tossing, so as to insulate myself from the otherwise inevitable prosecution that fulfilling this deranged whimsy is sure to bring.

A good old-fashioned frame-up, yeah. Shouldn't be tough. Plenty of unfit mothers to go around. Like macadoni and cheez at olliday times.

Nothing like family to spur on a derelict. Nothing. Look for me in the news.


I Heard He Smoked Joints Dipped In Embalming Fluid.

Follow the Bleeder. 

He has a wonderful sense of direction I'm told.

Shit's gotten all post-meridian and all is quiet on the Western Front. Yet, the aforementioned empty pouch of Medellin Magic won't go down without a fight. (See the previous post if you don't know what the fuck I'm on about).

Reaching into my pocket, mulling over plans to hitchhike to L.A., my fingers fondle what I, until recently, believed to be a guitar pick.  

But the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of. Just be glad that for once in your colorless (RGB) life, a contiguous and captivating narrative is thrown at your feet.

You're Welcome.

Next Episode: How best to dispose of the (appreciably vacant) bag and avoid further exacerbation of drug-related interpersonal and familial crises. 

Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.
i fucken pwomiss. or they can throw me in gaol.


Finders-Keepers Fear the Reapers.

Old Business: What did her pussy ever do to you?
New Business: What didn't her pussy do to you?

Q: When does it end?
(dramatic pause, mild inertia)
A: Sometimes it never ends.

Autobiographical for once.

In a day spent mostly trying to download the Kim Kardashian sex tape, a thing of beauty emerges but a few hours after sundown.

*Expose The Nose*
I sit atop my dais, shivering in solitude, leafing through the "Harvester of Sorrow" issue of Vice Magazine (procured from the Williamsburg American Apparel store during a cracked out excursion with TimeMachine; very cute footsoldiers working there, ps).

Though the cover and pages are unreasonably weathered (stained with the joys, sorrows and general heroics of all that have passed through Shooting Gallery Studios in the past three or four weeks), this is the first time I've made an effort to actually read the thing. Flagged long before this little reenactment of the that now infamous Seinfeldian vignette. Natch.

I arrive at the Guitar Center advert/"Vice Guide to Bands" bit, taking the time to read the bit on Chromeo's gear tips, internally decrying the ubiquity of the Vice/American Apparel hipster-industrial complex, when what should I see but a bit of terror. The beautiful blonde mistake, straight from the belly of the beast, in the home my mother raised me in.

A first. Honest.

There it is, a twenty-bag of Devil's Dandruff, lying dead before me, completely empty, at once a disaster and a blessing. What would possess me to tuck away a decidedly empty bag of flash deep within a magazine? The world may never know. All that matters is that we're here now, so there's no point in leaving just yet, yeah?

Sit your ass down and have a drink. We've got a lot to catch up on, yeah? The Killer in me likes the frosted side, but the Automaton in me likes the Killer in me. Go figure.


Who Gives A Fuck About An Oxford Comma?

Radiohead - Everything In Its Right Place

Exactly one year ago, in the midst of my greatest existential crisis (to date), 
My balls literally went from blissful paradise to panicked peril in a matter of minutes.

I blame that skank's hurricane tongue, those overlarge (if sensual) lips.
Maybe the copious amount of whiskey and amphetamines, keeping me in the dark and out of the race, dulling me to the pain.

That agony. A creeping thing that would make itself increasingly relevant as Christmas Eve/Christmas Day 2004 wore on, drove on behind a train of hellhounds
Like some sort of endless fucking nightmare ride, with Daniel Day Whomsoever holding the reins.


A name's a name of course. But is the Butcher's Apron really necessary? Seems to kind of fly in the face of an "America for Americans" yeah?

Well Tangential, but I make no apologies.

Just let it be a lesson.  

Though enthusiastic blowjobs may look good on film, in the cinema verite that is the real deal, they can indeed land a body in the emergency room at 2am on Christmas Eve, vomiting into a well used bed-pan, cursing every Tom, Dick and Harry around because you're forced to wait 30 minutes despite the irrefutable fact that it's Christmas morning and you're the only miserable fuck in the waiting room. God knows ya lonely soul.

Pain so thorough it leaves no opportunity to consider an end, a resolution. No escape. Only the solace of a deep enmity towards all who aren't you in that moment. Own it. Nurture it. Be it.

All these fucking degrees and the best you can come up with is a kidneystone? Word? Keep in mind that this scumbag-criminal-manipulator-genius-crackhead-walking emergency-sage writhing in agony before you is a tender 19 years of age.  

Sink to the subterranean and succumb to "scans" of all sorts. Let the Indian Professional ultrasound that black sack, cos' kid's all doped up on commercial grade pain-murdering-pulsates, so it's not gay or nothin'. Doesn't feel the sensuality that's filling that tiny room second by second. 

We're goin' in.

Because you see, the man who stands by and does nothing in the face of the commission of evil... Well that would make him a sinner all the same.

And for all intents and purposes (nee, "all intensive purposes"), our man's right testicle trying to strangle his left testicle qualifies as evil in this context. Without emergency surgery, the execution would be complete and amputation of said testicle would be necessary.

But as there are two colors in my head, so to speak, I'm here to assure the curious heart that everything worked out rather well. Made it in for surgery, in time, got a nifty gauze diaper thing, and came away with a pretty sweet (if short lived) hydrocodone prescription (a thing of note as it was preceded months before by some rather dangerous OxyContin experimentation). Though, to be truthful, their medicine, so-called, only detached me for a few days before it became utterly and painfully ineffectual. 


Life's hard.

Making the shit interesting is even harderer. Your best is all we can ask for.


Fear Is On Our Side. Oh Yes It Is.

I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness - "The Owl"

So which will it be Rextaford?

The Raven? Or The Owl?
The choice is surely yours.
But if we're truly honest,
It's a Simple Question really. With an even simpler answer.
All you've gotta do is look down at your hands.
Now tell us, how haunting have those hands become?
Since you've been here that is.
Oh yes Rextaford, The Hands have it.

Division Day and the kids are all atwitter.

Somewhere in New Mexico, at or around the time of the 2000 U.S. Presidential Election:

Chlamydia test was negative. Doesn't comfort as much as I'd hoped it would.

Joy and Pain, Sunshine and Rain,
Meted out like so much petrified Christmas candy,
Commiserating over Jack and Waters, pounding stale cigarettes and
Dissecting bar-top peanuts with a brass cocktail sword from La Perdrera,
Pretending they're the tiny beige bodies of prisoners of some undeclared yet inevitable war.
Sick, Sick, Sick, So Sick It's... Sick.

She leans in, well close, breath hot with the unmistakable scent of complimentary drinks:
"Not easy to make it through a minefield carrying all the hopes of an entire Boom".

Settles back into that raggedy fucking chair, all warm and smug.
Stares up at the TV, smile wrapped around her straw.
Knows something none of the rest of us seem to.
In for the tempest though. Always has been.

A moment of science,
Then a plunge into those hazel eyes that confirms It,
Once and For All:
It's about who strikes hardest,
Not who strikes first.

"Oh yes," she says, grinning maniacally.
"The Owl and The Raven need each other more than either of them would care to let on."


There Would Be No Public Television!

"The World's Worst Singer"

If there's one thing I heart about Web 2.0, it's how extensive and accessible it's made humiliation. Cheers to that. I'd still fuck though. Just sayin'. Off to the boozah, yeah.


New York's Alright If You Like Tuberculosis.

Fear - New York's Alright If You Like Saxophones (Live On SNL)

"It's great to be here in New Jersey".
Hahahaha. Perfect

"New York's alright,
New York's alright,
New York's alright,
if you like saxophones!

New York's alright if you wanna be pushed in front of the subway!
New York's alright if you like tuberculosis!
New York's alright if you like art and jazz!
New York's alright if you're a homosexual!

New york's alright,
New York's alright,
New York's alright,
if you like saxophones!

New York's alright if you like drunks in your doorway!
New York's alright if you wanna freeze to death!
New York's alright if you wanna get mugged or murdered!
New York's alright if you like saxophones!

New York's alright,
New York's alright,
New York's alright,
if you like saxophones!"

Fucking perfect. Infinitely relatable, so why belabor the point any further?


I'm Gonna Fuck A Spice Girl: Ancillary Involving Anthropomorphic Teeth.

Three 6 Mafia - Sippin' On Some Sizzurp (feat. The Munchers)

In case you're not all that strong at visualizing horrific scenes, this YouTube video more or less sums it up. Though there wasn't any Codeine-infused prescription cough syrup or anthropomorphic teeth involved, the level of madness is about on par with the last six days of my life. I like to picture myself as that bizarre Cavity-Vampire character, if I do say so myself.

As if the track isn't Gothic enough, someone saw fit to make things super sketch and mash it up with this bizarre cartoon. Claymation has always scared the shit out of me, but if I had seen this coming up, I would've gone absolutely apeshit. If parents of the echo boom ever have to wonder why we ended up the way we did (read: all fucked up and real shitty), look no further than shit like this. Have a nice day!

I Wanna Fuck A Spice Girl. No Fuck That... I'm Gonna Fuck A Spice Girl!

I'm not going to make any apologies for being sporadic.  When benders last from one Wednesday night into the following Tuesday night, these things are to be expected.  At a juncture such as this, it becomes necessary to consider how badly you want it. 

Are you able to shake the memory of inadvertently drinking your own urine? Should you apologize for throwing a pint glass at a stranger's head, seemingly unprovoked, at a favorite local boozer? Does it make sense to consult a psychiatrist after hallucinating (in the midst of the aforementioned bender) that you discussed the possibility of a war with Iran with your long dead grandfather? Should you be worried about pneumonia after spending four hours in a broken down SUV with the windows down, cracked out in the financial district, awaiting help? Should you fear retaliation from the number of customers (and proprietors alike) who were utterly offended by your savagery? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe fuck yourself. Don't worry. Things can only get better. You love it when I'm bad.