I AM SIMPLY KILLING TIME BEFORE MY HEAD ALLOWS ME TO SLEEP LIKE A NORMAL PERSON AGAIN.

I just had a hot dog from 7-11; I know, I know, they assemble those from the crap they pull out from underneath the fridge and wrap it in old condoms - I get it. I know I'll probably undergo serious gastrointestinal destruction in about twenty minutes, but...DAMN. That was a good dawg.

The heat in this apartment is just insane. I tried turning it up last week when we had that brief cold snap (FROST? NO THANK YOU.), but it seems our landlord turns the furnace off during the summer and didn't bother turning it back ON until today, when it was PLUS 18 out. Wonderful. I will not miss this fucking hovel.

My woman just schooled me at Scrabble, and it musta been embarrasing, because now Facebook won't even let me back onto the site. Damn. Whatever - she's TOTALLY getting fat, y'know...

(...that was an inside joke that I might share with y'all at some point, if she don't kill me first, but anyway...)

Currently listening to Trompe Le Monde by THE BEST BAND EVER KNOWN AS THE PIXIES, and I gotta say, what the effing eff is up with all you haters? I've been hearing a lot of shit-talk lately:"The Pixies were great before their last album, Trompe Le Monde was such a corporate sellout album, besides, Frank Black had fired the band before the album came out, so.."

So? I'll give you 'so'.

1. Fuck you, it ROCKS.

2. There is nothing on ANY of the earlier albums as satisfying as "Alec Eiffel"; I dare you to defy me. "Dig For Fire" comes close, but there's an old saying that uses the words 'close', 'horseshoes' and 'hand grenades', which I'm pretty sure goes something like "CLOSE yer cakehole before I stuff a HAND GRENADE into it and tape it shut." I have no idea what the horseshoes are all about.

3. (This part is edited because I said something mean about someone who deserves to be punched in the face repeatedly, but I'm trying to be nicer these days, so...)

4. If "The Navajo Know" don't make you wanna dance like a jittery, pent-up ball of late-80s angst, then you are DEAD INSIDE.

...okay, I realize that hand grenade thing in #2 was lame...

That's all. I must go get fresh air before I literally choke on my own sweat. Tomorrow: the awesome-icity that is Built To Spill.

That's right: Built. To. Spill. Suckas...

Little Boys On Crystal Meth.

Sometimes, all you wanna do is get drunk and fall asleep fully clothed in the bathtub while the TV is on in the next room playing reruns at full volume of America's Most Hilarious Police Beatings On Animals That Attack Tommy Lee, with a half-eaten pizza and an empty can of Pringles as your pillow, and a wet pair of underwear as your blanket, all the while ignoring the neighbours pounding on your front door who are complaining about the noise. It's okay, though: they practice voodoo, which means that they are heathens who cannot be trusted, and quite possibly could be hallucinations brought on by drinking that Neo-Citran that expired in January of 2003, so answering the door would just be a bad idea. They might have knives, y'know, or worse: bibles.

Sometimes.

I might not be posting for a while, as there are certain things that demand my utmost attention, which means that I cannot spend every night shimmying to Ween's 'Friends' any more. I gotta 'cowboy the fuck up', as they say. So, quickly: the new Frank Black Francis Charles Thompson Fat Guy From The Pixies ("Bluefinger") is the album we've all been waiting for since, well, the Pixies broke up the first time; the new Iron & Wine ("The Shepherd's Dog") actually has a funk tune on it and it's good; and the new Weakerthans ("Reunion Tour", those cheeky devils...) is strangely disappointing, but I'll take an album of half-hearted Stephen Carroll songs over most radio tripe any day. Also: WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THAT MODEST MOUSE WAS PLAYING?? WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE??

It's 6:00 a.m., and I'm not nearly drunk enough, so I'm gonna go to bed, because I have to work later on this afternoon, and my head's gotta be screwed on right. Who knows: I might even rub one out before I fall asleep, because sometimes a man just likes to be touched.

Jesus STILL owes me five bucks.

Apparently, during that whole David Koresh/Waco fiasco, the FBI were investigating whether or not it'd be possible to broadcast a subliminal message to Koresh over the phone lines that they'd been using for negotiations; this message would've taken the form of (they'd hoped) the Voice Of God, in an attempt to influence Koresh's actions. The man they'd lined up to play the Voice of God was none other than Charlton Heston.

Damn. That's some twisted brilliance going on right there.

Everyone should read this book. Underneath every comedic whacked-out hippyish idea for nonviolent confrontation lurks a far more sinister portrayal of just how depraved we allow ourselves and others to be when it comes to conflict resolution. What I thought was going to be a light read has turned into something quite sobering.

In other news: it is cold enough outside right now that snowfall is definitely imminent, the thought of which has caused my brain to fart and collapse in on itself, squealing like a deflating balloon and ricocheting off the inside of my skull. I hate everything right now. Thanks a lot, God.

Co-Sign My Letter.

I have returned, having finally vanquished the demonic spider monkeys that'd taken root in my lungs; all that remains is cleaning up the vile monkey jizz that keeps seeping from my mucuous membrane.

Okay, that was a bit much...

Spent the last couple of days feeling as though I was NOT in the loop with anything or anyone around me. Not fun, not good for my head. Add a cold that, despite the efforts of modern medicine, shamanic chants and a big stick, simply WILL NOT GO AWAY, and the fact that I've become a Failure As A Human Being again, and, well, whatever. Welcome to the awesome suck that is my life.

Oh, boo-hoo. At least I'm better-than-average at Scrabble, and right now I gots me Neo-Citran (apple-cinnamon? No friggin' way!). Tomorrow it's Paying Bills, Rescuing My Bike From The Crazy Lady's Basement & Giving It New Feet, and Looking For A New Place To Put All My Stuff & Sometimes Sleep. Also: Learning To Live Without Capitalizing Everything. That'll be a tough one, I know. But, yes, it's time to stop the foolishness and actually quit this hovel, and while I've been romancing the idea of finding an actual house to move into, I'm gonna have to suck it up and admit that I cannot afford such a thing as of yet. So: this is me apartment hunting for reals.

Should I feel concerned that my co-workers seem to be getting younger and younger? Will Beano soon be staffed by pre-schoolers? Will I then become the creepy janitor that everyone thought was harmless but secretly kept old sweaty gym-strip in his footlocker that everyone supposedly had 'lost' in the change rooms? Hm.

New CDs I Got Cuz I Am Nice:

1. It's good to see that David Yow is actually doing something again, music-wise; Jesus Lizard wasn't just some band you walk away from, although this new outfit of his, QUI, has all the earmarks of a forgettable one-shot: vague, nigh-indecipherable name, song lyrics consisting of two sentences repeated ad nauseum, etc. Still, it's Yow, who routinely presented his scrote to the world on a nightly basis, and doing it here in town while forcing my good friend Gobbler to fellate him through his jeans, so any chance to hear him rant over discordant guitars and drums is a good thing, yes? (Hint: you're supposed to agree with me here.)

2. Okay, so despite having the gheyest album title I've heard in a long time (I mean, really, "Autumn Of The Seraphs"? Jeez, you guys might as well be AFI...), Pinback sounds revitalized and catchy as hell, especially after Rob Crow scared us all into thinking the band was done by putting out solo and side projects like a monkey throwing feces (Goblin Cock: hell, yes; The Ladies: please god make the hurting stop...). Boris: this sounds like the band I'd always expected you to form.

3. High On Fire, Death Is This Communion: THANK YOU RELAPSE RECORDS FOR THIS NEW ALBUM. High On Fire is what Motorhead would sound like if they stopped playing the same chords over and over again.

4. Kanye West, Graduation: really? Huh. No, I don't think so. Maybe Kanye should've taken another year off with this one; anyone who disagrees with me should listen to the putridity that is "Drunk & Hot Girls", which proves that not everything Mos Def touches turns to gold.

5. I'm very sorry but I still haven't really listened to the new Go! Team yet, despite it being full of mega-amazing goodness and superheroes on crack.

Stuff I Read All By Myself:

1. Not too sure about Rant yet. It was interesting, to be sure, and nice to see Palahniuk doing something a little different, but I'm just not getting the whole "time travel turns us into god but only if you have sex with your mom" sorta thing. Gimme a bit, I'll get back to you.

2. Currently attempting to get through Noir by K.W. Jeter. It's got that cool cyberpunk-cum-pulp detective thing going for it, but Jeter obviously masturbates over copyright law texts while dreaming of royalty cheques with cleavage, as the topic pops up repeatedly throughout the book and really overshadows every other cool thing he comes up with (the hero's eyes are augmented so that he views everything as though he were in a thirties detective film! HOW COOL IS THAT??!! If you guessed, "...so cool that it's TOTALLY AWESOME!", then you are correct...); still, I'm at about page 350, so I'm thinking I should push on and hope it gets better.

3. Remember me talking about "The Men Who Stare At Goats" a while back? The book about guys in the military who think they're Jedis and that they can walk through walls if they wish real real hard? The NON-FICTION book? Yeah, I kinda forgot about it, and now I'm thinking that if a book comes along and slaps me in the head and says "HEY I WAS WRITTEN FOR YOU!", then maybe I should actually read it. So, um, there.

Other Stuff That Causes My Brain To Feel Good:

1. Wonderful wonderful Playstation Ads. (Even that famous "White Power" one.)

2. Apocalyptic Wasteland Done In Lego.

3. Why I'll check out Team Fortress 2 even though I hate first-person-shooter games.

My Neo-Citran is done, which means that I must sleep or die (it says so on the ingredients. It's true. It's Science!). So, um, bye.

Insert Topical Title Here.

Currently fighting off the plague. May not have the strength to write witty or clever things here, or give y'all deep insight into your poor deluded lives for the next couple of days. In fact, I may just eat your children for sustenance, for my survival is of the utmost importance, and besides, you'd probably just end up teaching your kids to emulate people like Kid Rock, so they're better off in my stomach, right? Right.

Guh. I demand y'all bring me chicken soup; either that, or gobs and gobs of drugs.

Woof.

I don't know what to say. I've had a really good day, despite having one hell of a staff shortage at work, due to this new Zombie Clench/Withering Flu that's been pasting people upside the head for the last week like a sock full a nickels. Everyone's sick, and according to Regular Mike (the big beefy guy who comes in for a medium medium and chased away the skiddy punks who were demanding smokes from passersby outside our shop yesterday, but that's another story...), you can't visit people in the hospital in Ontario now without undergoing a full-on Alien Abduction Probe, due to the fact that they seem to be fighting off THREE separate Superbugs out there.

Man, you shoulda seen Josh just wilt when he heard that.

The good news: we got to close at 10:00 instead of midnight, and we put up signs saying that it was because of Zombie Infestation ("Watch out! Be safe! Wash your hands!").

The bad news: My dog Chewie was put to sleep yesterday.



It's okay; he's close to sixteen years old, and not in the best of health. Wasn't in the best of health. This is honestly for the best. I shouldn't say my dog; he was the family dog. Hell, he outlasted one of my brothers, if you'll forgive a little bit of gallows humour. He had a good life; he was loved, he was never abused, I always let him sleep on my bed, both when I lived at home and when I went to visit the family in Vancouver, and he'd do this thing where he'd force his head under your hand and lick your palm until you fell asleep, and when you woke up in the morning, you'would find out that he'd actually pushed you out of the bed; you never took him for a walk, it always the other way around, he chased after squirrels like nobody's business, he left piles of shit that would rival a lumberjack on after breakfast, he tore the living hell out of footballs, basketballs, soccer balls, baseballs, and golf balls - shit, he'd eat through anything; hence his name (and you thought we were trashy enough to name him after a fucking movie? Bitch, please...).

The last time I saw him, he couldn't really see, he could barely hear, and his hips were going on him. I mean, he was strong enough to come see who I was, and when he finally recognized me, he was as happy as ever, making me rub his belly, wanting to play fetch with the basketball that'd deflated long ago due to puncture-wounds - although I have to admit, over the last few years, it was less a game of fetch, and more like "Chris Throws The Ball And Chewie Just Watches With His Tongue Hanging Out".

It's just...damn, y'know? He was my dog.



That's all I'm saying on the matter. If you try to talk to me about it when you see me at work, I'll fucking deck you. Don't call to console me, I'm fucking fine. Just go out and buy your dog a big slab of beef for dinner tonight, because chance are, he puts up with a lot more from you than you do from him. If you don't have dog, then, well, what the hell is wrong with you?

I'm gonna go get drunk and try to shoot Nazis. I'll see y'all tomorrow.

Never had a day a snow cone couldn't fix.

See, it's 5:00 in the morning, and I'm trying this new thing where I actually get sleep and then get up a few hours before work so that I can eat something and adjust to the Evil That Is The Sun and not be such a vile bastard to everyone I meet at work, so I'm gonna make this quick.

(Actually, this is all Her idea, and since she has proven to be smarter than me at Scrabble, I figger I should give it a try; also she won't let me touch her if I'm being a jerk.)

In an interwub world where I am assaulted by things like Bondage Fairies (what?) and Dragons F*#king Cars (WHAT?), it's nice to come across this: a video for 'None Shall Pass' by Aesop Rock, done by the always talented Jeremy Fish:


(If you're reading this on Facebook then too bad but Facewhore won't import videos from the blogger-place-thing, because Facebook is dumb and lame but please play Scrabble with me because I am addicted thank you.)

Also: I was wrong about Amy Winehouse. I'm sorry. Back To Black is modern day R&B done right; think Etta James minus a few sandwiches. Now, if only she could put her drink down long enough to actually perform this stuff live, or remember to take the coke straw out of her nose. Oh, well.

Also also: Joe Henry has a new CD out (Civilian), and you should all go out and get this because he's doing all that broken down cabaret stuff that Hawksley Dorkman and Goofus Wainright keep trying to do, but good, y'know? (Honestly, I hate those two; why the fuck do you people still pay attention to those whiny little no-talent primadonnas?) Think Tom Waits minus a few jugs of mescaline. Ignore the fact that he's Madonna's cousin, because he's been knocking out home runs since Trampoline back in 1996.

(For some reason, it took me five tries to spell 'Madonna' right; it's important that I correct spelling mistakes as they happen, you see; I'm an OLD PERSON, and I believe in language and proper usage, unlike you inbred chuds who think it's normal to send messages like "LOL im n ur haus makin ur kat wer mah gonch" to each other while massaging your shriveled and weird genitalia.)

Okay I must sleep now or I will bite the face off the first customer I see tomorrow. Lemme alone or I'll sock you one.

Bring Back Pluto.

Hey, Kat Von D was in town and I don't care.

Not that I have anything against the Los Anglican tattoo starlet in particular, but really, how soon before the lot of you forget about her as quickly as you did those pink Von Dutch trucker caps? Or Jesse James' West Coast Chopper hoodies? Tattoo groupies are worse than hair-metal betties - and if you've ever had Vince Neil in your mouth, you deserve to be kept in a secure location on display for those of us who wish to observe what an evolutionary throwback looks like. In the future, we'll have secluded sanctuaries for the likes of you, simply to keep you from contaminating our gene pool...

Anyway: stuff.

1. Music: everyone should pick up the new Aesop Rock, None Shall Pass. Holy fuckwads, batman. Aesop's got the lyrical imagery of a schizophrenic Tom Waits by-way-of Compton paired with a vocal delivery that'll knock you out like a slab of beef to the side of the head. Blockhead does most of the production on this one, which explains why his own solo release was somewhat lacklustre, as the beats on this are inspired and funky as hell.

Also: Madlib has a new Beat Konducta comp out, Vol 3-4:India; while it's not wowing me the way Shades Of Blue did back in 2003, it's a great soundscape marriage of Bollywood samples and lazy hip-hop beats. How's this for strange, though? Madlib's cousin/nephew/protege, Oh No, just released his own collection of indian-flavoured hip-hop (Dr. No's Oxperient), and holy-christ-on-a-crutch, it actually tops his mentor's release. Either way, these two are far more deserving of your money than Akon's latest date-rape apology or whatever the hell it was that came in my ears at the gas station this morning...

I missed out on the QOTSA show last week due to work scheduling, but then I'm sure none of you saw it either, as the last time they came through town, everyone complained about the fact that they got up on stage and played their songs really really well as opposed to fellating your indie-cool sensibilities; I'm also sure it was a good show, but I haven't spoken to any of my real friends in, like, a week.

And when I say 'real' friends, you just know I'm talking about all you guys, right? Right? Right.

Meg: I haven't listened to the new Caribou yet. I'm sorry. I will. It's just, when a man of my age has the opportunity to engage in, y'know, sex, he's gotta take it, y'know?

2. Books: Pahlaniuk's Rant is pretty good, so far; told as a series of interviews with friends and family of Patient Zero in regards to some mysterious future epidemic, it's equal parts black humour and pseudo-mystical Iron John reject-all-you-know self-help that tends to permeates everything Chuck's ever written.

That's not to say that I disapprove. Sure, it's got some silliness that doesn't gel with the majority of the story (the Road Warrior-esque Party Crashers bug me to no end...), but I'm enjoying it nonetheless.

Also rereading PKD's Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sleep aka Blade Runner, because PKD don't shiv; y'know his android's still wandering around the Australian outback somewhere, right? I'm still wrapping my head around that one...

3. Comics - went comic shoppin' today; dropped a bunch a money on funnybooks that would've probably been better spent on food or bills, but what the hell - I gots priorities, yo.

Ex Machina Vol 4: March To War - Brian K. Vaughn's story of a superhero who gives up the tights and runs for office gets bloodier and more convoluted, and I can't get enough, especially now that they've introduced an actual nemesis; I'm liking this a lot better than his other Vertigo series, Y The Last Man, which seems to be a lot more bark than bite.

Hellboy: Strange Places - NEW HELLBOY! NEW HELLBOY! NEW HELLBOY! NEW HELLBOY! NEW HELLBOY! NEW HELLBOY! NEW HELLBOY! NEW HELLBOY!

That is all you need to know.

The Exterminators - okay, Bryn, you were right: this is effin' good. A story where the chemicals we use to get rid of the bugs only makes them stronger and more voracious in appetite? Hell, yeah. Plus, the last page is a priceless monster-movie sequel segue. Colour me impressed.

Also picked up Brian Woods' DMZ and the new BPRD collection, but I'm putting them off as they're both very wordy and I still have to go shave my head and wash my unnerwear.

Other stuff: an interview with a living goddess, witchcraft makes you money, and how to impress ladies on a pub crawl.

An update on local adventures: Mr. Brown is no longer raping the earth in Peru, as he came down with a case of acute renal failure (dude, wtf? You are not allowed to die in a foreign country! They will eat your bones and laugh at your ghost! It's true!); he's cool now, but jesus fuck, my friend...

...also: calamity on the Mormon & Jew front, as one returned home from Italy only to get dumped, while the other had his ladyfriend leave for god knows how long to be among sheep and Maori warriors, both of whom are creatures who headbutt each other for fun. Still, we are feeding them alcohol and rubbing their tummies, so all will be well, kinda.

The Crazy Lady is still crazy, but she's also really pretty, so I'm not worried; she also lost a wife ('bye, Megan! Have fun in Frenchland! If it's possible!) but gained another Grumpy Old Man to help turn her living space into a maze of books and empty bottles, and it's not even me this time! Bryn is what's known as 'good shit', although he shall taste bitter defeat when I destroy him at Scrabble.

This is me going to play with scissors.