Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Howdy again. ummm, hmmm, I decided it was retarded to hint at a band that I saw play and for reasons unbeknownst except for me, kinda, and not really, to not say who they were, well, one reason is for reason one, and the other to think that people will be like “boo hoo, he thought that band was good? Oh que sera mon dieu,” and etcetera, you know how it goes. Anyway. It was papa roach. Now go eff yerself.
Hmmm. Now that I have uttered the unutterable, what now to do. Sigh. Oh yeah, tony pierce hates jack Kerouac, or, rather, thinks he was a hack. Heh, nice, I rhymed. I disagree. I liked on the road quite a bit, but, granted, it’s been years since I read it. But I liked it. Or did I?? Maybe I’d hate it now. Maybe I’d want to eat it then barf it out then spray paint chartreuse. The point I’m trying to make is, eh, umm, I dunno, but that, shit, is it so fashionable to dump on the mediocre yet talented nowadays? Cuz if so, shit, take a phat dump on me. On my forehead. Cuz, fuck, I dunno. Maybe I’m too praising, maybe I need to start saying shit sucks. Let me start with Meyers’ Rum. Meyers' Rum sucks. Oh my sweet Jesus, I don’t mean it. I could never poop on Meyers’ Rum. It should poop on me. It should take gigantic dumps all over me, not just my forehead.
See this is why I rarely post shit, or rather, more rarely, lately, because I write dumb ass crap like this and then in 50 years someone will read it and say what a hopeless fucking hack I was because my shit didn’t sing like liberace with an electric guitar up his ass. What the fuck ever. This whole if it’s not botticcelli it’s gotta be bottled shit ravioli idiom that is just running rampant like a cheetah that raided the red bull factory is just a donkey anussed beaver ramming horn swaggler episode waitin to happen. Mark my werd(s). by the way, I’m not sure what point I’m trying to make, or if I have a point, the only thing I’m certain of is that this proviso is not an excuse either way. I have no excuse nor point, thus you are fully within your rights and also encouraged to hurl whatever barbs of criticism towards my non-point that you can come up with, they don’t even have to make sense, you could just randomly insult me, so g’head, have fun with it. Gracias.
Now I could go into all the this that and the other thing that I’ve been up to in the last few days, and, admittedly, or, rather, anti-admittedly, it’s been quite a bit, most of it enjoyable, but, eh, fuck it, who gives a rat’s. I mean, you prolly do bout that more than this, ie, idle chatter is less than actual description of events, but, I dunno danielsan, in that aspect I have this sneaking suspicion, and I’m willing to bet my lack of a reputation on it, that you would be wrong.
Yup, so then there’s that. I will admit that I was able to view a live performance by one of the modern day rock groups and I was pleasantly impressed. I’d honestly thought that rock and roll post 1995 was completely and irrevocably dead in the sense of any type of quality. And not that I’d ever given this band more than a glance and a nod like, “hmmm, they might be ok,” but their live show was heavy on the energy, heavy on the rock, lotsa attitude, strong showing. So, contrary to reports, shit’s alive.
Now we gotta worry about rap, which it would appear is ruling the universe harder than the greatest fears of the dino-riders. But, shit, the way I see it, prop up the goddamm tombstone, cuz Pat Garrett or whoever is right on mofo’s tail, and almost has his head in a locked up sleeper hold, I mean, shit, when ludacris can cavort and pimp out the jams all over the world and keith has to slither through the underground, with admittedly solid cash and of his own accord, I dunno, I’m going nowhere with this, but I think you get my point. And it’s not that rap is dead, but it sure as fuck is hurtin’.
You know, now that I think about it, djxplicit has much more cogent shit to say on that topic than I do, and if he ain’t doing so today, dig through the files. Added bonus: the artist formerly known as Ronnie Ock is slanging his wares on the low over there on a here & there basis as well. Shit, what more can you ask for, except maybe an ice cream sundae and a baseball cap with a super brain scrambler with a range of 30 feet plus options for non retreaded tires to magically appear whut when your shit busts from so many miles traveled seeking out the so-called "truth" only to end up crying in a river of alligator tears upon realization that it’s nothing but a screed-infested myth.