27 October, 2011

This Halloween, don't go as a racist.

Oops. LOL!

Friday's gonna rule. Won't be there. Or here. No, I'll be cleaning up after people while T-Bird soars low, borne on a blood-scented wind. No, I'll be carrying dirty dishes in a dirty tub on my stained shoulder while my girl bats her eyes at any and all keepers of the low end.

Halloween, man. There's too much pressure. Like right now, MF's sitting next to to me making a replica World Wrestling Federation world champion belt out of a Flying Dog box and tinfoil. It looks pretty good, actually. The artistry is admirable, like, it looks authentic almost. But I don't have the energy for that kind of shit. So this year I'm just gonna do something easy like get my name legally changed to Jeff and go as Jeff Pearce for Halloween. Don't worry, mom'n'dad, I'll change it back before Thanksgiving. But if I don't, won't it be kind of fun to call me Jeff the whole time? Like "Hey, Jeff, are you still a vegetarian?" and "Hey, Jeff, I really don't think Polamalu's the same player he once was." Or "Hey, Jeff, come look at all my new kittens!" Or "Hey, Mom, Toots just puked on Jeff's forearm."

Saturday seems cool, though.

In the meantime, check out Forever Cursed. Dude is constantly posting records I find very therapeutic.

Feelin' good about my History exam. Got a math test on Monday. Here we go . . .

26 October, 2011

This is perfect.

Of course Deciblog is gonna have the best LuLu review.

Crossed out.

Some days I can almost comprehend that I'm on this massive living rock that's spinning constantly on its axis. I can tell, when I look down at my feet. The world is spinning, I can see that, I think. I'm standing here still, but I'm still in motion. But when I look down, on these days, I see this often unconsidered fact as being palpably obvious. There planted are my feet, American size 13 Vans hemp Rata Vulcs, black and natural gum, but the ground, - say the ground at the community college: pale cement mixed from something cheap like shale, stuck all over with blackened gum and littered with cigarette butts and a few resilient tufts of grass, flying the Lion's Teeth citadel, - it'll just spin right there, beneath despite my shoes and my feet and my legs and these pale yellow-tipped claws sticking out of my dirty redflannelovergreyhoodie jacket I call my hands. You know what I mean? Like it's a bad special effect. So what do you do? Succumb to the nausea and fall, vomitting, to your knees?

I prefer to just ignore it and move on to the next thing. Fuck the (everspinning) world. It's all about me. Or you. You say: "It's all about me." Say it. Go on. Don't feel bad. There's nothing wrong with it. It's that or acknowledging the existence of quite possibly living in a pointless vacuum.

21 October, 2011

"Caution: Wet Floor!" on the left hand path.

You know when Sam updates his blog it's crazy. There's all kinds of professionally took photographs for you to look at, whether they're of his closest friends and family hunting in blaze orange in our slice of the massive Appalachian apple pie or series of pictures exhaustively cataloging, to an almost pedagogic degree, the various processes of fucking being a fucking man. A Steinbeck kind of man. The kind of man who can go toe-to-toe with Hemingway and still be kind and true to his partner. A man who walks in Jesus-shaped footprints even if he refuses to aknowledge the prints in the sand by which he sets his gait were made by the ensandaled hirsute feet of his One and jerryOnly savior. But that's terribly beside the point. Religion and politics, David, I find myself reminding myself in moments as these. Two things no one cares to talk about. Yes, it does suck that you suddenly know a little bit about both of them, but - now, remember your paradoxes - that's exactly why no one wants to talk about them. It's hard to remember to keep my bushel hidden. NO! I don't want to, but, alas, I must.

Jacob, Ian and Mike, as well. When you see them near the top (seldom are they at the top for few update more often than the likes of Funeral Spirit and Finsternis) you can count on your click meaning something. (Ha Ha! Matt just sneezedx3 on the phone ordering a pizza; he hadn't even said 'hello' yet, they picked up as he was winding up. Oh, man! What a great day!)

David Berman's over there. Of course he's gonna have some cool shit to say. Margaret's got a great blog she doesn't update enough to warrant a true shout-out. With so many other cool places to zomb-out in front of, not to mention the myriad porn sites, why visit The Dower for a dose of brain radiation?
 
This is essentially my facebook. I like to imagine, even fantasize, that it's being read on a semi-large scale, but in reality it's about making my girlfriend laugh and creeping out my parents. It's about giving my already purely ornamental life a little embroidering, a sprinkle of glitter, if you will hand me that packet of glitter over there next to the Elmer's glue and the Styrofoam balls that are painted to look like the people in our lives.

I mean, do you (again, I'm aware that I'm speaking to myself here, as I would never address any reader of mine - Margaret or otherwise - in the informal tu) care at all that I got a 92% on my latest Algebra test? Sure, by regular standards, the kind used in high schools, that's not a fantastic grade, a 'shows room for improvement' sort of grade, but by my standards, not to mention the standards set out by the Head of the Community College of Allegheny County's Math Department, that's a fucking A! And then some. So maybe you should care, Einstein.

Gonna have to get myself one of these to show myself how proud I am of myself. Gotta get myself something with that money before she gets to it. Crazy I gotta spend so much money to order an American band's merch from a Polish label. Poland's cool, though, I guess. The Tin Drum continues to blow me away. I'm nearly finished. Next I'll be reading the first book of my History of World Religion professor's fantasy trilogy.

Or, for instance, do you care that I've been jamming the raw mixes of Ego Mortido, the new Drought record engineered/produced by the everever Kent Wilson; and, furthermore, that they rule? I mean, we might not be on Southern Lord, but one of us is. Twice over. Yeah, you. Didn't know that did you? We're the one band T-Bird's in that's not on Southern Lord. That being said, I'm excited for you guys to hear the record.

15 October, 2011

From a basement in a mansion.

Comin' @ ya frum KNTs pad in Röscharster.. DutchNaps@Twizzlers.com











  
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Kents got a crazy setup in his basement DutchNaps@Twizzlers.com   

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Dont sweat it, Dad. I'm doin' homework.. DutchNaps@Twizzlers.com
  
Almost a total greek slumber party up here.. DutchNaps@Twizzlers.com

Dan's around, just like playin' vdo gmaes n shit. DutchNaps@Twizzlers.com
















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12 October, 2011

On the lowest frequencies subterranean voices speak to me.


Drought's my band, in case you didn't know. After this show we're headed to Rochester, NY to the Chateau le Pax to record our latest record, tentatively titled, DRWT A.D.

Also, all you Wu-Tridow fans best heed this.


Rather Engorged,

11 October, 2011

"Because the world is so faithless,

"I am going into mourning." Latin inscription from Pieter Bruegel the Elder's The Misanthrope.


Now I'm sure most of you have already jammed 4Kent Vol. 5 and read, probably xtimes by now, my Art History midterm paper in which I compare the artists of the Renaissance with contemporary Black Metal musicians, but for the select few who somehow fell through the cracks, or, for whatever reason, declined to accept my invitation to read my writing and to listen to a mix I personally curated, I present to you, for you may not might realize it, but you dissenters, you naysayers, you harbingers of taciturn harassment, you propagandists of paranoia and self-doubt, are my favorite subjects, for it is you whom when proven wrong turn the most pleasing shades of red, so here, I present to you, my faithful mutineers, further proof that who you're dealing with, who you're presently reading, might just be a genius in training. An idiot savant at the very least!



"100 Excellent I seldom give 100s but your paper is exceptional. Not only in conception but in writing and illustration. Thanks."





Also, Tim, check out this record, dude. It fucking rules! I promise.

08 October, 2011

You mean, beyond pacifism?

Here we go! The latest installment of the 4Kent mixes, and what better timing, given the subject matter. I had this idea a while ago whenever I was thinking up different themes for all these mixes, and I've been working on this particular volume ever since. And with all that's presently going on with the potentially burgeoning second American Revolution, I realized, upon waking up this morning, that it was high time I posted  . . .


Beyond Pacifism 







Once again, I leave the option for cover art up to you, so long as you chose 1 of the above 3. That's all I ask.

Here's what you're in for:

1.) "Work for Peace" by Gil Scott-Heron
2.) "Queen of the Borrowed Light" by Wolves In The Throne Room
3.) "Bjarkan" by Wardruna
4.) "Choose Your Heaven" by Catharsis
5.) "All Life Converges to Some Centre" by Altar Of Plagues
6.) "Powderfinger" by Neil Young & Crazy Horse
7.) "Oak and Aspen" by Gallowbraid
8.) "You Can't Bring Me Down" by Suicidal Tendencies
9.) "Unrequited" by Deafheaven
10.) "Last to Leave" by Arlo Guthrie.

Also included is my midterm essay for my Art History II class. Check it out. I bet you'll dig it. Make sure you open it with Word, otherwise the layout might get messed up.

Also, last night went well. People said they dug what I'd submitted. Higher Fives killed. Expect more on that soon. Gotta go eat lunch with Marge. 

"Ordinary readers, forgive my paradoxes: one must make them when one reflects; and whatever you may say, I prefer being a man with paradoxes than a man with prejudices." - J-JR



Monumentally, 


06 October, 2011

"He displayed a sort-of gum-chewing smugness."

Thx Dave 4 the link 2 Brad's site.


Really liked this 1.


In Other News:

- Steve Jobs dies just short of the Moment of Singularity. 

- American community college student, sophomore David Pearce, shows poise and gum-chewing confidence at this morning's Intermediate Algebra exam. "Pfft, 'complex' numbers," Pearce is quoted to have said. The exams are being graded now. We will update you with the results the moment we receive them.

- Local community college professor continues struggling against shitting his pants as he teaches the French Revolution to his indifferent students during the Occupy Wall St. demonstrations, of which his students are also wholly ignorant of, and indifferent towards.

- Marge has a cold. I ask that you keep me in your thoughts during this time of struggle and character fortification.

- Biddy/Cutie/Kitty has yet to be stepped on, rolled over by a computer chair, or cut in half by a slamming door. She is alive and well.

05 October, 2011

"The Truly Great Writer does not want to Write:

"he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination. The first quivering word he puts to paper is the word of the wounded angel: pain." - HVM, from Book One, Sexus, of The Rosy Crucifixion.

Got a 47/40 on my art history midterm. Pretty sure I got the highest grade in the class. Girl who sits next to me calls me All-Star. I corrected her: "AdderAll-Star." Gotta wait 'til next week to see how I did on the paper, but no matter what grade I get on it, I think I did a great job. If you wanna see it, come to Mike's thing at Roboto on Friday. I'll have several pieces there. So will a bunch of other people, some of whom actually deserve to be called writers.

Smoke a joint with your Mexican neighbors, or, if applicable, your Mexican uncle.

Timbo, think you might be into this record, brah.

04 October, 2011

Old games, new babes.

My boy Sam's got an awesome blog he just told me about. I've only started reading the most recent post, but I can already tell it's worth checking out. As the blog's title suggests, Sam's an old fashioned kind of guy, one who Rx's to the old adage "anything wert doin' is wert doin' right now, ya here me, damnit?' Sam's blog is Sam being Sam. Read the subtitle/description: that's Sam. 'Cept he forgot to point out "intensely hilarious," 'damn stylish," and "sweetly brotherly." //Sam, I'll tell ya, he's got a sort of youthful avuncularity to him. Sam and I first met around the turn of the twenty-first century after common era through a local scene forum. //At that time I was quite the vocal youth. Sam was at the smoky age of 25, 26 maybe - pre-stacks. To spare you the boring details, he pwned me. No one else probably realized it, sans Sam and me, but we realized it. I realized it. I couldn't even be pissed, and that day something changed about my personality. My ego became just a little more expansive. Empathy was hurling it outwards. I was forced to confront a new idea. Someone had pwned me. Me! The unpwnable! Looking back now, I realize people never needed to pwn me because I was constantly pwning myself. I existed, and still exist today, for one purpose: selfapwnment. //I got over it, eventually. Sam remained an insidious archetype in my mind. This phantom whom everyone but me knew. This shadow that had existed for so long before my day of reckoning, whom no one ever mentioned, that is until his arbitrary return. It was his first post back! And what'd he do? He pwned me! //"Sam," I would think. That's it. Just "Sam." What sacrosanct sibilant shibboleth that name represented to me, like the sweeper to a cat, something you cannot help but beware of, something which sucks away the rest of the world, but is entirely indifferent of you: a vacuum.  //Some time after being pwned, I posted a thread on the same board asking if anyone knew where I could get a job. Times were rough for lanky, young D-Man. Sam replied, told me I could come work on the farm where he lived, put his number in the post, told me to give him a call. //My first or second day on, we tore apart the ramps I had spent my recently fell adolescence riding: turned out the farm Sam worked and lived on was the same farm that Studio 334 paid rent to sit on.  That remains symbolic to me, also. Made even more significant by the fact that both Sam and I stepped on nails that day. "Our mirroring stigmata signifying the birth of an eternal fraternity," I would later dramatically recount. //Now Sam's got a solid job, a nice pad up on Mount Olympia, and I haven't seen him in far too long. Maybe I'll see him next Friday. Anyway, check out his blog.

Old Ways and New Days, a blog by Sam Carlson.

Brain, brain, go away . . .

Posting from CCAC. Rode my bike here in the rain. Not quite rain, actually. More like a curtain of cold, mist. My ass is soaked to the bone.

Listened to the Thantifaxath demo several times in a row during the trip. I was like: "Holy shit, this is a demo?!" Seriously, get that shit and hear it. Don't let it hang out on your iPod for weeks before checking it out, like I did. Very interesting guitar work. An Orthodox foundation atop which new ideas and abominations are erected. Heh. I think you'll like it especially, Timbo.

Rode past some dude pushing another dude in a wheelchair near PNC Park. Dude pushing yelled "get on the sidewalk" at me. Listen here, Buddy, where the hell do you think I'm more of a hazzard to the likes of you? On the sidewalk or in traffic?

Not sure what this post is all about, really, but check out that Thantifaxath demo. It's not very demo-like at all. The production is superb, the instrumentation masterful, but the length is short. That's probably my only beef with it. But that's not really a bad thing. I'd rather listen to a short record a few times in a row than not be able to make it through one in a single sitting. Listen to the new Absu and this back to back. Burn both of 'em on the same CD and blast it outta your hoopty when you're picking your fine ass girlfriend up from yoga.

Also, here's a stupid article on Black Metal written by a dude who knows next to nothing about it from a magazine that an article on Black Metal should never be in. But it's actually a pretty decent read. Marge drew my attention to it. She got a Rx for the New Yorker.





















The D-Man Spaketh.

03 October, 2011

I dreamed I was a butterfly . . .

. . . fluttering about, hither and thither, over the city lights like fallen constellations, over the rivers like trickles of chocolate milk, over the amazing maze maze off route 36, and over the haunted House of Woland, and when I landed it was on the nape of your neck, and I dreamt I tickled you with my tiny, fuzzy feelers, and, even in your unaware state, you did not swat me away, and when I awoke to discover I was a man, I wasn't certain of what had happened. I'm still not sure if I am a man who had dreamed I was a butterfly, or if I am a butterfly who is now dreaming I'm a man.

Feeling great because I handed in one midterm paper early today and finished the other that's due tomorrow. Two down, one more to go.

Chris calls her Cutie. 






Also: Holy shit, Metal Review was right! This shit rips the Earth apart! 

Saw Thou last night at Kopec's. Old Accusers opened for 'em and totally stole the show. Thou's singer threeiterated that he was drug free. Light'n' up, dudes.

On that note, I gotta get ready for work. See you guys around. 

02 October, 2011

How the High Renaissance and early Mannerism influenced contemporary Scandinavian Black Metal.

; Or Welcome Home, Biddy.













Biddy the kitty
asleep on a
titty committee.


Not even my cat and yet I've named it and taken pictures of it with my girlfriend. So be it. If they don't wanna call her "Biddy," I'll just call her that myself. She might not even be a girl, though. Remember when we thought Tundra was a girl? Treated him and referred to him as a girl for the first six months of his life. Damaging? Perhaps. A potential explanation for his indefatigable devilry? Worth considering. Let's hope that six months from now Biddy doesn't wake up from a nap on Marge's chest and stand up, putting her ass right in Marge's face, as cats are wont to do, as if we should be so familiar with their asses as they are, as if we should have no problem with such close proximity, and give Marge, besides a face full of asshole, a face full of big, furry testicles. That's how it happened with me and Tundra. I felt ashamed, like I was a bad father. So here's hoping Biddy has titties and not balls!


May I just riff on the above image for a bit? That is not ol' Paint, mind you. That's not the 2000 silver Buick Century I've been driving for the past seven years. It looks like it, but, I assure you, it is not. Quite, I say, quite wrong you would be if you looked at the above picture and said: "What's Dutch up to taking pictures of his crummy old 2000 silver Buick Century? We know ol' Paint. See her constantly all over town. Why pollute the blogosphere with such banal simulacrum?" And, after I'd slapped you for disrespecting ol' Paint, I'd explain to you, nice and slow, soldering my words to your memory, that that ain't ol' Paint. It's Dusty Rhodes. My new ride. Got it straight up after some anonymous assassin slew ol' Paint in the middle of the day with people watching, the same people who affect smiles when I pass them on the sidewalk, the same people whose ratty little dogs I tolerate sniffing at my feet - talking neighbors. But who am I to expect people to snitch? Lords knows I don't snitch. Anyway, that's my new 2001 gold Buick Century aka Dusty Rhodes. Total middleclass luxury y'all. Balla status. With the windows down, system up, screamin' "Money ain't a thang!"


If ya need me, here's where you'll find me. Gonna be here all day - with the occasional chess and football game and pizza and smoke and beer and playing with Biddy and seeing Thou at Kopec's break - until I finish my paper for Art History.





"Never forget!" but I
was drunk, so I
hoped he would.


Still, it wasn't cool to just kick around Ol' Glory like that.













 "Although it is hard to argue against any person's imagination or fantastic recreations of something that belongs to the past I will question his claim that the men wore penis cases during these rituals. I will remind Kaul and everybody else that the large phalluses of some of the men in the rock carvings from this period are normally understood as symbols of fertility, and nothing more than that. With that said, if they wore these cases where are all the penis cases in the archaeological material?" - Varg Vikernes, "The Kingdom of the Sun"