Some Sunday

Some Sunday mornings just aren't like any others. Picking the glass from out of one's shoulder may take longer, and breakfast gets a little colder.

Hello, Yea

Things some of us are so accustomed to, but the crack in the fault is that not everyone was willing to accept an alternative - a word she had been disgusted with for months, yet still capable of maintaining a no-nonsense visage every time - every - time - it came up.

She showed her feral side during sex, which wasn't for comfort; just an outlet. She didn't mind being branded slut, coming much quicker than a rumor's chance; it even proved handy when she needed information, which was almost double a golf's eagle when she realised that also within the bitter moniker held some control, the kind she liked and wouldn't give up easily, unlike other things.

The bell signaled. Yea fixed her eyes, reality once again blocking her view of nirvana. She looked to her feet, she bit down; something was't right - even when it was perfect.

Elevator doors parted ways. Her minions (assistants).targeted her. The soft ripple in space tickled her wrist. The tingling confirmed her being noticed, her eyes recorded every person and activity in areas that were not her immediate concern, making sure they stayed that way.

Back to work for Yea.

Echoing Chatter

Trapped in the middle of the road without a way of getting back, we hoofed it, coughing, gagging, wheezing; but still feeling those teeth-tipped-tentacles knipping at our heels.

"Lower," the old man screamed, gritting his teeth soon after. This had no longer been about the research. They took from him the only thing he ever felt could continue to grow alongside him. His knowledge was a wealth, but having it and never being able to share it with someone - someone that lent a willing ear for a change; not because the boss couldn't stop gambling, or because Boss C can't get laid without having a fresh paycheck setting his pants ablaze.

Someone was actually listening.

We Will Smash Our History Through Your Skull

Mr Kunstmann belongs to les UX, a clandestine network that is on a mission to discover and exploit the city’s neglected underworld. The urban explorers put on film shows in underground galleries, restore medieval crypts and break into monuments after dark to organise plays and readings. In the eyes of their supporters, they are the white knights of modern culture, renovating forgotten buildings and staging artistic events beyond the reach of a stifling civil service.

The authorities view them differently: as the dark side of the City of Light – irresponsible, paranoid subversives whose actions could serve as a model for terrorists. A police unit has been trained to track les UX through the sewers, catacombs and old quarries that are their pathways under Paris. Prosecutors have been instructed to file charges whenever feasible.

More Shit

More shit.
What do I think I really need.
More shit.
Living without it, I could never breathe.
More shit.
Buried deep below fallen angel leaves.
More shit.
More shit - I need - and lots of it.

- fake trak

- fake trak

Hidden trak: More Shit - Lazy Dayz by the Pool Remix

More shit.
I needz my dvdz.
More shit.
Porkyz best when it's all 3.
More shit.
Scratch my ballz with your stolen Oakleyz
More shit. Mooooore shit. More shit.

Get That Outta Your Mouth (and put it in your ass)

Just another reason to live and love.

Revolting Cocks

Revolting Cocks - Attack Ships On Fire
Uploaded by Maetthew

He's Got'em By the Eyes

Just trying to get the ball rolling. Nothing to talk about, which isn't to say some good things have been happening.

Tasted the grit at the beach, and dancing with some fire. Today has been relaxation at its finest, but the deeds of undoing are scattered at wealth.

Just trying to warm up before the real thing.

Ministry: The Last Sucker - Review

Al Jourgensen is back with his latest incarnation of Ministry - and for the last time. "The Last Sucker" not only concludes what Jourgensen asserts as the trilogy in the anti-George Bush Jr. Saga (previous albums: "House of the Mole’" and "Rio Grande Blood"), but it also sounds the end of Ministry’s perseity in the music industry, and the band goes out in an exciting, evolved, but familiar blaze of glory.

Ministry began as a dark-synth-pop band, or whatever label one would wish to use, in the early eighties. Slowly, album by album, they began removing the electronic elements, relying mostly on guitars and drums, but still tweaking the sound in the studio. These last three albums by Jourgensen and gang have almost been pure metal, slightly in the vein of a heavier and faster "Psalm 69", an album where Jourgensen saw fit to bash George Bush Sr.

"The Last Sucker" starts off with the quickly consuming "Let’s Go," which is about as good an opener on an album, and live, as a band can produce. "Watch Yourself" and "Life is Good" continue the metal assault with feral riffing by Tommy Victor (Prong) and Sin Quinn (Revolting Cocks), and rapid, tight drum programming by Al (Alien) Jourgensen and John Bilberry.

Then - - - the album hits a snag. The second and third songs foreshadow what is to be the middle of the album, which is practically the same sound that Ministry has constructed in the past two years. Being a trilogy, I let it pass in the aftermath, but upon first hearing "The Dick Song," which has an outstanding chorus slamming Dick Cheney, "The Last Sucker," and "No Glory," I felt that they were nothing but songs from "Rio Grande Blood" and "House of the Mole’" rehashed, re-edited, and redone, particularly "The Dick Song," which sounds almost exactly like "Lies, Lies, Lies" from "Rio Grande Blood." But, after hearing the entire album, and going back to these songs, they are easier and much more enjoyable on the ears.

"Death and Destruction" continues the light footed demolition begun on the album, then, "Roadhouse Blues" comes along; bringing new life to the sometimes overplayed Doors song (awaits flung beer bottles and retired bongs from Doors fans [because you wouldn’t throw the new ones, would you?]). It also feels like a preview of Ministry’s upcoming cover album "Cover-Up." Then, the punk invades with
Die in a Crash." This features the first of the latter tracks featuring Burton C. Bell (Fear Factory). "Die in a Crash" is crunchy punk, and it is fun.

The album goes out with a bang in the two part "End of Days." Part 1 has Burton C. Bell joining Jourgensen again on vocals and chorus with a memorable guitar melody, and mellow rough vocals. Part 2 continues the melody while inserting Dwight D. Eisenhower’s presidential farewell speech into the track. It is well done, and when listening to Eisenhower, his words are as relevant today as they were in 1961, but that is another write-up for another time.

Ministry’s final album should please fans new and currently following, because to say old fans, that spans a good chunk of time, and some may have dropped the band. I have enjoyed their music since Day 1, and now at the end, there’s a sense that more could have been accomplished, but it seems best to go out on a high than sink to a depressing low like some other bands have. The Last Sucker might disappoint in some areas, considering it is their last hurrah, but Ministry goes out in style - their style.

Personal note: I will miss the anticipation of future Ministry music, but will never forsake the experiences learned and head when listening to Ministry. Each album, up until these last three, was something different, and always unexpected. Ministry is done, but Jourgensen still lives. Here's to Ministry; here's to the future. Cheers.

Distracted

Working on a modern day fairytale; short story, nothing special. Actually, not a modern day fairytale, but a modern day story with fairytale elements sewn within.

I'm using it to concentrate on scenery and landscape.

Why the hell am I writing this. I've got work to do.

But really, I'm having a tought time getting it off the ground. I like the main character too much. He's not pushing the story in the direction I had originally intended, which was something light, stumbling into the realness of the Brothers Grimm tales, not the watered down, make a buck versions that butchered the original material, I mean the painful, bloody, and endearing ones that were told to children back in an age when common sense was rampant among the youth, and they knew what it meant to respect a day's work, unlike today where they wonder how "cavemen watched tv." That was a serious enquiry from a sixteen year old I heard today.

For those without spawns, find some radiated material and sit on it. You'll make the world a better place.

Same Ole Shit

Started messing around with the settings, thought I'd redecorate the sight. Then, no sooner did I begin did I realise A)I like it the way it is, and B)I don't have time for this shit.

Back to work.

Sunrise Flavored

The carlot was full.
It felt like one of those days.
Too much sunrise.
Afternoons welcomed the eyes much more pleasantly
Than any humid morning. Humid.
Choking the shit out of nature
And the natural orders.
Sweating in the morning,
Sweating in the shower, after the shower.
Sweating before sleep.
Remembering that face, sorting out the silliness.
Here we were - sunrise covered morning

Traffic, Wednesday Afternoon.

Toilet paper. It's the thing holding all of this shit together, and proudly keeping us apart, simultaneously. I thought every movement had been recorded, bouncing off the field, shaking its own staticy skin. Earth made a memory.

That was its way into the upper atmosphere, wanting to speak with the other planets vapor to vapor. The planet became quite the chatty sentient being.

Lefty

There was a man who lived in a house. It was a dark house, with the definition of old creeping from the house's skin; gray, whithering, and peeling.

The man had a dead hand. He had lost the use of it shortly after his return from Viethnam. He walked around town, yelling, preaching, and worst of all, making sense.

Three days in the heat, his troop had been stranded without radio contact, but there was some hope, but it came in the form of a mid-forest brothel. Just a dozen or slightly more tents propped up in the middle of the Southern Korean no man's land, with ladies waiting to offer themselves to any of their nation's troops flashing the right amount. They weren't there to harm anyone, only make some money to send back to their families.

But, Old Man and troop had orders. They showered the sex pit with bullets. He pointed towards some escapees, not because he was a monster, but because he believed was being a good soldier, and in doing so his hand caught the kiss of a .30Cal M2.

By the time his platoon reached an active radio, his hand and any hope of reafirmming any future use of it were gone. He would later dub it Lefty, not because that was the hand that had been shot, but because it was the piece of him that was left behind.

I Can't Wait for the Revolt From This Thing

Unlike clearly artificial robotic toys, Hanson says he envisions Zeno as an interactive learning companion, a synthetic pal who can engage in conversation and convey human emotion through a face made of a skin-like, patented material Hanson calls frubber.

"It's a representation of robotics as a character animation medium, one that is intelligent," Hanson beams. "It sees you and recognizes your face. It learns your name and can build a relationship with you."

Frozen Drunk

I have nothing to think about, walking through the snow, wearing mukluk's made from the backs of drunk, recently unemployed Alaskan accountants from Chicago.

I see a red stream curling down frozen hill. I dip to prick at it, bringing its scent to my nose. Licking my fingers confirms that it is red wine - dry red wine.

The horse got into the cellar again.

Sleep? Hi. Don't Believe We've Met.

I couldn't stop what was growing here. The ride wasn't slowing down, and I didn't mind.

So,treats for whomever needs one:

No Warranty

Just finished a phone conversation with my aunt. She's a suicidal hypochondriac, and is the type - if you ask her a question she'll write you a novel, but the novel will be all about her problems, then, she'll take those problems and shovel the guilt trip on top of you for whatever miniscule thing you have or have not done for her lately.

Future note: Guilt trip doesn't work on me, folks. I am the furthest specimen from perfect, but I enjoy hating who I am or am not. No one will ever take that away from me.

So Damn tired

I like a woman that is willing to take care of herself. One that I don't have to motivate. One that is willing to make my life miserable without me having to aggravate or antagonize every waking moment to do so.

I will push buttons all day every day, all in good fun, but in between I try to leave no room for doubt that she is the one I want to come home to every night.

I like babies. I'm okay with kids. But, part of what I enjoy about being an uncle is when Mom and Dad come to take baby away. Kids should be like cars, getting to trade them in for a new one every year.

Do I want a child of my own - I'm not that interested, but I think about having one almost every day, and the future of that child with me as it's father. Immediately after that my psychiatrist spends about an hour trying to convince me not to perform a home-based vasectomy using a screwdriver, a car battery, and jumper cables.

Airline sacrifices goats to appease sky god

KATHMANDU (Reuters) - Officials at Nepal's state-run airline have sacrificed two goats to appease Akash Bhairab, the Hindu sky god, following technical problems with one of its Boeing 757 aircraft, the carrier said Tuesday.

Night Shaman

Fighting sleep is my specialty. My personality and my genes were made for the night. I have a day job, and I'm a compete zombie until well past one o'clock in the afternoon.

During my vacation, my body immediately reacted, reverting back to its natural nocturnal state. I couldn't sleep at all the first few days, and finally, one June morning, just after sunrise, I knocked out, awoke around noon, and felt whole again. I was back to normal, stepping out with the bats, holding conference with the street lamps. She spoke to me again. The city and I became reacquainted. She told me all her secrets, the kind she was too afraid of telling to the day shaman. The night shaman, he knows all about secrets; having them, keeping them, and using them.

If I nod out for ten minutes, it's like gaining a full night's rest. A whole eight hours, and I refuse to fully abandon my comfortable coma. A curse it is -
a curse.

The sun is not my savior. Blue skies can keep their hope. Give me the moon and the night, and the shadows that hide purity, for the purity that thrives through the darkness is a fighter, a survivor, and sometimes - if needs be - a killer, but most of all, it is a leader with fire for its spirit.

I need a beach trip.