Ceci n'est pas une cybercarnet.

So I'm designing a website.

Yes. Another.

This monstrosity wasn't enough damage for me to inflict upon the world.
I did help (and bitch about) a great deal with the design of Matt's and my little webzine, h2bh. But Matt did most of it. In any event, I'm designing the site for beef and lemons, the newest addition to the whorehouse of engine shed records. Yep, that's right. My label. Oh, hey.

GO BUY TONY ROMANELLO'S COUNTING STARS while you can. Our first printing is almost out, and it contains the bombastic drumming of Stephen Drozd.

Go buy it here. And go buy the Pistol Arrows' CD too. Please. They're good. I swear. Rock!

This about sums it up.

The Onion. More than just funny. A frighteningly real parody.

There are about 5 billions things I should say to express my opinion right now, but I'm too pissed

I just made the mistake of doing the rounds on the conservative p-blogs.

Grrrrrrrrrr.

This is why I try to keep myself out of politics. Too many stupid people. And they all seems to have blogs.

Well, I won't be doing that again for a good while.

If only I could use MY audio powers for good, too

Thanks to Sourbob for the heads up on this one, one of the most interesting blogs I've ever seen, and a brilliant use/catalog of sounds. Check out audible frequency, for fabulous, found audio art.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS, LARRY!

Say what you will about the tenents of national socialism, dude, but at least it's an ethos.

In my role as the most hated blogger in the local underground blogging scene...

I, your everso humble narrator, really don't have anything to say (ignoring God, ignoring God), I just wanted to use that headline that I stole from Mark Eitzel via Matt, who also designed my acid induced new banner, O fellow brothers and droooogies. I just got home from work, and now I'm going to go sit on my giant mushroom and smoke my hookah.

later.

Listen, you little shit.

Steve,

Of course I know how to use MovableType. While you may be the Pumpkin King, I AM the Almighty. So keep that in mind.

By the way, your archives don't really work.

And I know how to fix them, 'cause I AM that I AM.

But I'm not going to tell you how.

hearts,
The Alpha and Omega

Whatever happened to Baby Jane?

Where the fuck is God?

He probably hasn't figured out MovableType yet.

I'll send him an email with some instructions.

Spiggy Bardust

And thus spake Spiggythustra:

"I would definitely fuck you in the attic. HERE IT IS!"

I AM the Pumpkin King!

I, your everso humble narrator, have some pictures to post, O brothers.

It's the droogs*, lovelies**.

*droogs only implies booze and nicotine.
**lovelies. heh. love lies.

Oh, go fuck yourself.

So I haven't gone back to bed yet.
And I smoked last night, and I'm about to go have another cig right now.

So piss the fuck off.

We could go kick down some doors together.

If only there were a good textual way to convey maniacal laughter.

I'm going back to bed. It's beginning to hurt, my head.

And I see a few first time commentors out there.
Welcome.
I hope it's "Long time reader, first time commentor" but honestly, I think it's the fact that MT pings this shiz-nit for me.

I'm out.

Well. We certainly put an end to that whole non-drinking nonsense...

It's one of those mornings where I wake up at 8:30 because my body is trained to. Where I can feel the impending hangover. I can see it like a thunderstorm on the horizon, and I await the pain and destruction it will bring. I just listened to one of my roommate's songs on iTunes, and in my half drunken state, the experience was too weird, the thought that I was doing shots with this disembodied voice less than seven hours ago, and eating McDonald's (oh shite, I went to McDonald's, didn't I?) with it less than six.
I love the way wee bits of information, details and sometimes large chunks of the evening slowly swoop their way back into my conscious mind as I sober/wake up. I met this girl that I went to high school with last eve. Jennifer G, or something like that. She was two or three years older than I, and apparently, when I was but a wee freshman, hit me accedentaly with a door and knocked me the fuck out. I have zero recollection of this event. Which I guess holds with the assertion that I was knocked the fuck out. In any event, this girl was ab-sa-tively gorgeous. And she talked to me for a good solid 30 minutes. And I could barely form a sentence at this point (this is hyperbole, ladies and gents, I'm actually quite an eloquent drunk) but she still hung around and flirted with me. So why am I here alone, typing on the computer at 9am instead of still in bed with Jennifer G? I have no idea.
But I am listening to Spoon. And fuck it. If I had brought her home, she might not have liked Spoon, and then where would I be?

I will no longer do the devil's wishes.

The rain on my car is a baptism...

Well. Here it is. Sort of. The spigot is now at its own address, now uses MT and now has archives. I was hoping to have a little redesign done too, but I'm getting antsy about the switchover. I've been double posting for the last two days (mostly stupid test crap here, but I did bitch about my nic fits too.), and i was in danger of having two separate spigots running at once. And we all know that can only lead to flood.

So enjoy, and the entirety of the old spigot in all its unarchived glory (it's huuuuge) is here if you get bored with the new one.

The Unbearable Lameness of Quitting Smoking...

So. I'm trying to quit smoking. It wasn't really a conscious effort. But i decided not to go out drinking on weekdays this week, and lo and behold, by Wednesday afternoon I noticed that I had only smoked a pack of cigarettes since Sunday. And I'm a pack a day guy on low stress days. So I haven't bought any new cigarettes, I finished a half pack of menthols I got as a promotion (the steve way to smoke a menthol: Wait until you're suffering from a particularly bad nic fit, take a menthol out of the pack,put it in your mouth, think of how it tastes like Vic's Vapo Rub, light it, smoke a third of it, put it out. I fucking hate menthols.), and I'd like to say, I feel better. I've also only had one beer, one burbon, and one glass of wine since Sunday as well. I've run, I've lifted, I've had more energy, I've slept better.

I would also like to say...

I REALLY REALLY REALLY NEED A FUCKING CAMEL FILTER OR LUCKY STRIKE OR MARLBORO RED AND A FUCKING MAKER'S MARK AND WATER RIGHT NOW!

Thank you.

I AM STRETCHED ON YOUR GRAVE

I am stretched on your grave
And will lie there forever
If your hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
My apple tree my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather

When my family thinks
That I'm safe in my bed
From night until morning
I am stretched at your head
Calling out to the air
With tears hot and wild
My grief for the girl
That I loved as a child

Do you remember
The night we were lost
In the shade of the blackthorn
And the chill of the frost
Thanks be to Jesus
We did what was right
And your maiden head still
Is your pillar of light

The priests and the friars
Approach me in dread
Because I still love you
My love and you're dead
I still would be your shelter
Through rain and through storm
And with you in your cold grave
I cannot sleep warm

So I'm stretched on your grave
And will lie there forever
If you hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
My apple tree my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather

Mantra

I will no longer do the Devil's wishes.

And I'm all like "what?" And she's totally like "Boom! I'm naked."

So anyway.

Tired, So Very Tired

I wish I want to stay here. I wish this be enough. I wish I only love you.