31 May, 2012



Welcome to the Hour of Dower, a.k.a. DOWERVIZION, a.k.a. FACE-OFF 2: RE-FACIALIZED, a.k.a. Bukkake'd in the Glory of Yahweh!, a.k.a indulge me a little here, guys, I always kinda wanted to be an MTV vj so just take a load off and watch some vijeooze as curated by yours truly-unruly, KVLT KOKAINE, a.k.a. WHYTEFACE, a.k.a. RAZE HELL, a.k.a. moi, David "Dutch" Pearce, the poet of "Blessed are the Barren," him who stalks behind the blog. Alright, let's rot some brains!

Butt-head called this song "slow and fat." Beavis said it's work out music if you're skinny and wanna get fat. Few are harder than Crowbar, and one gets the feeling this is considered "emo" on whatever planet the dudes from Crowbar left to populate Earth with their thick gelatinous sludge.


A video of Swedish babes playing catchy self-referential party metal that you can actually watch un-muted! Seriously, though. Crucified Barbara's debut release In Distortion We Trust was an unexpected kick-to-the-balls that most sausage-dragging testosteroni-topped cheeseheads like myself didn't even realize we needed. And The Midnight Chase, the all-female group's third LP, is poised to kick those balls once more and then savagely drain them of all their spunk and worth. Well consider me spread-legged and ready! Here's "Into the Fire," the new record's first single. Cute bangs!

This is the video for "Challenge of the Undead" from Austria's Zombie Inc., whose debut  A Dreadful Decease chomped on a lot of unsuspecting necks last year. This'll remind you that Zombie Inc. is still out there, yuckin' it up with undead folk, fetid-fresh,  and still trying to top Deceased's Fearless Undead Machines. (Found on No Cleaning Sing.)

Speaking of which, here's an awesome fan video for Deceased's "The Silent Creature," which is off Fearless Undead Machines. It's a little confusing towards the final couple of minutes but stays entertaining 'til throughout, even as it repeats scenes. 

This is the video that made me wanna write this post: Christian Mistress' "Pentagram and Crucifix." Relapse money, but not much apparently. Super lo-fi, kinda reminds me of Coven. She is cute, though, isn't she? In a totally down-to-earth sort of way, too. Hmm.

End with a classic.

The Dower is Mine!

First off, this is not "dutchpearce" or "Raze Hell" or "dpear29" that moron who doesn't log out of his personal Google account on a public computer. This is BlacKMasK, a real mother fucker that don't blog tweet snipe words with friends or even text. You seen my name around though you probably can't read it cause you don't have the vizion. My shits written deep in the frame of your lives. diet Sepsis anyone? But I know the guy. Well. You know. I watch him. I see come in and out the cafeteria. Gather up plastic forks for the whole crew. See em fold some brown napkins. Put it all in his shirt pocket. See. He ain't like me. He don't know the definition of discretion. He's a vehicle to a higher calling. A carrier, but he goes about it all the wrong way. See. BlacKMasK speaks to you all on the lowest of frequencies. From a basement on a hill illumined by hundreds of hanging bulbs. Bare and bright as the day they were born. A hole full of light that permits no shadow but that shadow that is me. And I eat it up too. For breakfast. For dinner. I even put some in a brown paper bag so I can shove my face in there and feel all that light run through me for lunch.

Dude talks his shit thoug don't he? Writes his essays and shit. Yeah. I get on the computers here at the campus and I read his essays. He ain't bad. Good thing he's at community college. But no he ain't bad. What I'm excited to read though. In fact, what I'm gonna stay here all night probably and read is all these abandoned drafts. The real refuse. He doesn't delete any of it. Here we go. We got a post entitled "Bukakkee'd in the glory of Yahweh." Here's another one "When it comes to sounding like a complete dick". Too bad the world never got to know either of these. And what's with all the Christian shit? Is it possible that he's really invented a new way of blaspheming in which he so annoyingly and strangely worships God that it actually offends the Big Guy? If so he's bested Satan. A strange fellow indeed this Dutch.

But right now I'm giving him exactly what he wants. Guy's a dick. I'm way cooler I swear but here I am talking about him. I'm behind some shit. Right? I'm fuckin BlacKMasK. Right? I mean. I'll fuck you up. Ya know? But I feel so strangely compelled to talk about Dutch. As if this really is his place. I feel as if I'm somehow even becoming him.

That's the Dower. You have proven sufficient. Prepare for assimilation . . .

Whoa! I did not just type that! And now blogspot is being a little bitch and won't let me edit anything.
Alright, this is spooky. I'm gonna publish  and get outta here.

This has been BlacKMasK. The friendly. Cool. Crazy even if Dutch's haunted blog won't let me tell you about it. Janitor. Reminding you all to please log off your computers at school.

Least GHM aint haunted.

30 May, 2012

Whilst jamming the new Ahab.

 or, Whilst jamming the new Ahab - which is great by the way.

Gotta put in that work. And writing, even blogging, especially when done consistently, is most definitely work. So is tutoring I'm learning more and more every day and with each new student. Plus I ride my bike to and from work and the office is located on the fifth floor. And of course I take the stairs, especially when there's a sign taped to one of the elevator doors that makes me feel all guilty by reminding me to let the handicapped on first and to give them precedence in the elevator as it's their only means of getting to class on time. To break up the monotony of going up and down five flights of stairs several times a day I sometimes walk across a floor to another stairwell and in doing so I am wont to peak in the classrooms and steal quick glances at bare shoulders and exposed ankles. Occasionally I stop in and see if any former professors of mine are teaching that day and happen to be in-between classes. Mrs. Patterson I always try to visit. She keeps a cornucopia of chips and cookies on her desk at all times. She listens to me complain and worry and then empathizes by telling her own version of my story. Her father was a minister then a chemist at Duquesne. Oh wow. Just realized how familiar that sounds.

29 May, 2012

Palpable obscure

And so, I think it best you follow me
      for your own good, and I shall be your guide
     and lead you out through an eternal place

where you will here desperate cries, and see
     tormented shades, some old as Hell itself,
     and know what second death is, from their screams.
. . .

. . .
At Pandemonium, the high capitol
Of Satan and his peers: their summons called
From every band and squaréd regiment
By place or choice the worthiest; they anon
With HUNDERDS and with thousands trooping came
Attended: all access was thronged, the gates
and porches wide, but chief the spacious hall
(Though like a covered field, where champions bold
Wont ride in armed, and at the Soldan's chair
defied the best of paynim chivalry  
To mortal combat or career with lance)
Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air, 
Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As bees
. . . 

 . . .
The love we both shared for our native city
     moved me to gather up the scattered leaves
     and give them back to the voice that now had faded. 

We reached the confines of the woods that separate 
     the second from the third round. There I saw
     God's justice in its dreadful operation.

Now to picture clearly these unheard-of things:
     we arrive to face an open stretch of flatland
     whose soil refused the roots of any plant;

the grieving forest made a wreath around it,
     as the sad river of blood enclosed the woods.
     We stopped right here, right at the border line.

This wasteland was a dry expanse of sand,
     thick, burning sand, no different from the kind
     that Cato's feet packed down in other times.

O just revenge of God! how awesomely
     you should be feared by everyone who reads 
     these truths that were revealed to my own eyes!
. . .

. . .
There's another religious program on before I'm supposed to go out with Blair. The man who's talking has gray hair, pink-tinted sunglasses and very wide lapels on his jacket and he's holding a microphone. A neon-lit Christ stands forlornly in the background. "You feel confused. You feel frustrated," he tells me. "You don't know what's going on. That's why you feel hopeless, helpless. That's why you feel there is no way out of the situation. But Jesus will come. He will come through the eye of that television. Jesus will put a roadblock in your life so that you can turn around and He's gonna do it for you now. Heavenly Father, You will set the captive free. They, who are in bondage, teach them. Celebrate the Lord. Let this be a night of Deliverance. Tell Jesus, 'Forgive me of my sins.' and then you may feel the joy that is unspeakable. May your cup overflow. In Jesus' name, Amen . . . Hallelujah!" 
     I wait for something to happen. I sit there for close to an hour. Nothing does. I get up, do the rest of the coke that's in my closet and stop at the Polo Lounge for a drink before picking up Blair, who I called earlier and mentioned that I had two tickets to a concert at the Amphitheater and she didn't say anything except "I'll go" and I told her I'd pick her up at seven and she hung up. I tell myself, while I sit alone at the bar that I was going to call one of the numbers that flashed on the bottom of the screen. But I realized that I didn't know what to say. And I remember seven words that the man spoke. Let this be a night of Deliverance.
     I remember these words for some reason as Blair and I are sitting at Spago after having just seen the concert and it's late and we're sitting by ourselves in the patio and Blair sighs and asks for a cigarette. We drink Champagne Kirs, but Blair has too many and when she orders her sixth, I tell her that maybe she's had enough and she looks at me and says, "I am hot and thirsty and I will order what I fucking want."
. . .

(Ha ha ha! When the guy falls into the machine! So funny!)

. . .
"Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire,
outrageous to devour, immures us round,
Ninefold, and gates of burning adamant
Barred over us prohibit all egress.

"These passed, if any pass, the void profound
Of unessential night receives him next
Wide gaping, and with utter loss of being
Threatens him, plunged into that abortive gulf."
. . .

. . .
     Within the hour they were mounted and riding south leaving behind them on the scourged shore of the lake a shambles of blood and salt and ashes and driving before them a half a thousand horses and mules. The judge rode at the head of the column bearing on the saddle before him a strange dark child covered with ash. Part of its hair was burned away and it rode mute and stoic watching the land advance before it with huge black eyes like some changeling. The men as they rode turned black in the sun from the blood on their clothes and their faces and then paled slowly in the rising dust until they assumed once more the color of the land through which they passed. 
. . .

28 May, 2012

A tighter breathing and zero at the bone.


Hello. Hello? This thing on? Yes? It is. Okay then. Let's do this!

Sanctophoby's Final Feast (single) (2012)

Persnaps it's not as well known as yours unruly thinks it is, but he who stalks behind the blog really does lerve him some Sanctophoby. 'Member? And now they're back with more irrighteously lo-fi Beherit išgarsinimas; this time in the form of one long eleven minute song called - well, you are an astute reader, aren't you, you bleeding sore on my existence, you stillborn-pup suckling at the raw teat of the buried alive muse - that song, as you must surely have already guessed, since you're so plucking&observant, is called "Final Feast." And, yes, it's got recorder. Or at least an instrument which my dumb ears hear as a recorder. Given its name it really does seem like something you could witness at a fine Lithuanian restaurant off the highway somewhere on the outskirts of the sloth- and wrath-thronged Čepkeliai. And after it was through, after the band had arrived in their vests and hoods and growled and moaned in your face and sacrificed a black goat, offering you a draught of its still very warm blood, and after they beat on their drums and strummed on their g'its, you'd lean over to your date, no doubt you'd be out with the dread goddess herself, and say: "Well, that was lovely." And it will have been. But something is missing from the "Final Feast." Something that can be heard on SCOI, even evinced in the sulfurous air that rises like hot steam from one's skin upon listening to Sanctophoby's older material. Something very crucial to their aesthetic and sound, something that is lost or jettisoned from a person as he or she approaches adulthood and comes to understand the inevitability of their own mortality. (Am I going out on a skinny limb here? Projecting my fears onto the canvas of this blog a bit? Well, wtf is it for if not that?) Granted, there're legion bells and whistles to keep even the polytelevisually reared mind of a grindcore or power-violence kid entertained for its duration, but despite its dedication to its sound, its maturity, its possibly being the best thing they've done so far, "Final Feast" is lacking that "devil may come inside me but I don't care cuz I'm feelin' great!" attitude that made them dangerous and memorable. So while Sanctophoby may have grown as a band since the Satanic Ceremonies Of Imperfection demo released last November, maturing to the point of writing a perfectly coherent eleven minute song, it seems much more important that I've grown as a writer since first meeting Sanctophoby last Novembrr. Still total refuse and a great way to squander life, but the "Final Feast" single is nowhere near the party of Satanic Ceremonies Of Imperfection, which l0nk died w/ that slut Meg Upload, so if you wanna check it out, you'll have to leave a comment and ask for it. 

Dames of the Dowry


Here, and up there, the lovely and only somewhat stony-meined Margaret Thrasher models one of my birthday presents. A 41 year old bottle of Seagram's Very Own Canadian Whisky. A little fun fact: During the Vietnam War, soldiers who were soon to be discharged (or transferred to a more favorable post) would pin somewhere on their uniform the black-and-gold ribbon you can see tied around the neck of the bottle, hence this ribbon came to be called "The Short Timer's Ribbon." My father, not an envious comrade, though a Vietnam vet, gave this to me for my 27th birthday. I'm not sure when I'll drink it, but I don't plan on waiting too long. Cuz to wait too long is kinda like saying: "This is special, I mustn't squander this." That's not how my dad brung me up. He taught me to carpe diem, that when someone gifts you a bottle of whisky, you have it drunk by the next time you see 'em. Plus my life is soon to be so successful I'll be getting 4000 year old bottles of uisce beatha! Not from my dad, granted, but maybe from me to my dad. 



Top Left: Kaitlyn enjoying some frozen raw fox hearts. Eating fox hearts frozen and raw is a Cain family tradition, dating all the back to when our first father was exiled to the land beyond Paradise. Top Right: Just kidding, they're strawberries! Bottom Left: Our fair lineage flows forth! Bottom Right: Truly.

 Here's the the thing about so-called "crazy cat ladies:" Usually, they're loners; barren widows with no one in the world left to care for them, so they turn to cats, because cats provide the neglectful indifference and the mercurial affection that women, crazy and cat-hording or otherwise, seem to desire so much. Now here's the thing about Carolyn E. Cain-Pearce, my mother: Yes, she is certainly crazy, but she's also damn smart, extremely creative, far beyond driven, and she's got a husband, two lovely children and a positively gorgeous, if not a little stuck up, granddaughter. And she doesn't just collect cats. She hunts them! She traps them, gets 'em fixed and then lets them live in her magical world, with her as the gentle-hearted arbitress. The menagerie you see above is built on the back of my family's double-wide, allowing the cats that she's rescued to exit through the basement window and eat grass and frolic in the sun without worrying about the neighbor kids trying to catch them and set them on fire or tie them together by their tails and drape 'em over an electric fence or bind them about their feet and throw them in the Susquehanna. My mother is not a crazy cat lady, oh no. She is a goddess to all cats in the greater Burnside area, with the mind of Hephaestus and the heart of Artemis, Carolyn is a friend to all cats, solid, striped or pied, all over her name is meowed with great and solemn deference, far and wide. 

1:05 is when you realize you actually love it. 

And here's "Time" as a bonus, cuz I know you'll want more, best tune I heard since Everlast rapped the blues:
Seriously, how much does that last verse sound like Modest Mouse? And how much does Riff look like Woody? You love it, you know you do. U <3 it cuz U <3 Vanilla Ice and U <3 Kid Rock 2. ". . .  and my car breaks down, I got no one to call on ('cept Triple A - pssh!)." is so genius a line it makes my hair turn into snakes and gets people stoned just from lookin' at me. 

Druid Lord's Druid Death Cult (2012)

Jammed this and also used it, unwittingly I thwear!, to rouse - ooh hoo! - Jo(h)n Vee-egas from our futon in the living room whence he slumbered. At first I thought it was some other derelict friend of Chris', but alas it was John Vee-egas, guitarist of Drug Lust, slinger of pizzas (literally, the Spak experience is an authentic one, often times quite like a Disney version of Do The Right Thing in which nothing too bad or sad happens, and whatever bad or sad stuff that does occur is perfectly ameliorated by the end), a real down dude. Boundlessly cool and enviably handsome, swarthy and hirsute. Okay, so I don't envy anyone's hirsuteness, but others certainly might. Anyway, me and Jon(?) V_agesis (??) visited in the living room for a while while Druid Lord's Druid Death Cult ep poured out of my bedroom. Ya know, it's strange, tunes is louder throughout the rest of the apartment than it seems to be right here in front of the system. Then again when I'm up in the Dower, I am directly in front of the speakers and I have got the surround sound knob cranked. But after some time, he, J-Man did, he asked: "So is this like the new Lamb Of God, or something?" You have to keep in mind, JV is fucking metal! He knows perfectly well what LOG sounds like. He knows what Bolt Thrower sounds like Hell, he probably even knows what Equinox sounds like, whose drummer went on to form Druid Lord. And Jay-Villain knew this sounds nothing like Lamb Of God, but he thinks Lamb Of God is lame, having seen them too many times in the mid-aughties, for which statement I can personally vouch, and, sorry to break it yinz, yinz in Druid Lord I mean, but John(sp?) Viegas(sp??) thinks yinz're lame too. Check 'em out if you want. It's pretty cool shit. Doomy death metal not nearly as interesting as Hooded Menance or Encoffination, but somewhere buried between the two. 

Alright, I'm hungry. Fuck off.

P.S. Happy Memorial Day! 

25 May, 2012

Summer Jamz, Vol. 1

It was nearly 90° F in Pittsburgh today, so this post can wait no longer. Herein you will find d/l l0nks to records that I think you should be's spending the next couple of months jamming in your room while everyone else is outside enjoying the sun and being crazy Bacchae. Featured will be (mostly) happy records, but you haven't got to be happy to enjoy them.  Alright, enough fuckin' around here, let's get down to it.

First up is Dan Briggs from BTBAM's new jazz/metal fusion side-project. If you don't like BTBAM, I can see how the previous sentence would make you wanna get as far away from this blog as possible. If you do like BTBAM you're probably listening to this already, so bear with me while I explain to the d-tractors why this record is an absolute must jam for any fan of any kind of music at all. Seriously, you only like obscure African music that doesn't even exist anymore because all the records it was on had to be melted down and recycled so that more obscure African music could be put on them? Well, you'll fucking love Trioscapes' debut then. Oh, now you're a house/wonkyhead who only listens to music that fills all the bolgia of your Swiss cheese brain with the necessary beats and crescendo-tornadoes to keep your heart pumping sweet blood to your flailing appendages? Right on, right on, sister, I hear ya. And I have great news. You are gonna get dripping wet when you hear Separate Realities! If this doesn't make you dance, then you must not have a pulse!  If this doesn't make you dance around at least a little bit, then fuck you, whitey! It's Dan on bass with a drummer who also does electronics and a sax'ist/flutist, and it's all inspired by Mahavishnu Orchestra. Look out cuz Trioscapes' Separate Realities just might win this year's much coveted H&R Block presents The Dower's Business Casual Record of the Year. Total refuse, baked by the moon, semi-formal, yet fresh and hipster-funky.

Recommended if you hate: doing the dishes without awesome jazz/metal fusion songs to jam to while you do them; not getting high every afternoon and having sweaty sex with your partner in grime; white culture; that arrogant mother fucker the electric guitar. 

Against the thunderer's aim your bulwark

Just a quick one here before the eternal worms devours all of North Side . . .

Thanks to Tim for the Delocated seasons 1 & 2 DVD. So super awesome of you, man. Expeck a call later today.

Thanks to Margaret for Solitary Fitness by Charles Bronson, and the best dirtcake I've had in my entire life.

Thanks to my parents for coupling and bringing me into this drought of life.

Thanks to the Myz for drinkin' me up last night.

Thanks to MF and Heatherso for reminding me how good the o.g. of this song is:

"The happier state in heaven, which follows dignity, might draw envy from each inferior; but who here will envy whom the highest place exposes foremost to stand against the thunderer's aim your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share of endless pain? Where there is then no good for which to strive, no strife can grow up there from faction; for none sure will claim in hell precedence, none, whose portion is so small of present pain, that with ambitious mind will covet more. With this advantage then to union, and firm faith, and firm accord, more than can be in heav'n, we now return to claim our just inheritance of old, surer to prosper than prosperity could have assured us; and by what best way, whether of open war or covert guile, we now debate; who can advise, may speak."

23 May, 2012

Werewolves vs. J.A.P.s

Spent the morning writing Mickey's baby, helping some students with resumes, spreadsheets and presentations on FTC and FDA. That last one's not do for another six weeks, but it has to be fifteen minutes long, so . . . I guess we're working on it now. Steve, the kid who I'm helping out with it, is also a Math tutor, he's my co-worker in fact. A Juggalo to the core, but also enjoys bands like The Devil Wears Prada and some band I've never heard of called Volcom Stone. Got cool logos, though, VS does. Steve's a good kid. Expects help and not the full blown do-it-for-me kind of shit that the one librarian warned me against, the Polish one whose name I can never remember but wears an ankh necklace and lets me use her personal library so I can rent things for a little bit longer - Yeah, okay, I'll read Hesiod's Homerica, including the Little Illiad, the Fragments in full, and the Theogony in just two weeks. Sounds good. Yes, I would like to put an extension on The Divine Comedy and Moby Dick and that book of Sophocles' plays. Well maybe if you'd let me keep 'em for longer than two weeks I wouldn't be checking out the same books every two weeks. Yeah, I'd be interested in having them for longer, for sure, that's exactly what I'm saying. Oh. Well, okay, I guess that's worth a tittyfuck, I mean, why not, right? Here we go, t-effin' my way to a brighter, more pretentious Dutch!

Anyway, I spent the morning writing and tutoring and the afternoon and evening riding. Found this spot just down the street where the parking lot's got all kind o' sinkholes and shit, so the pavement undulates and dips, but stays smooth. It's like a cement bowl, hips and transfers and wallrides. It's crazy. Then I was beaten into summoning my muse, the Black Odalisque, for another, but that is done now. But regrettably, the time for slumber draws nigh, and ere long I will succumb to its suffocating grasp despite what blogging I might yearn to do, for every man succumbs to sleep. It is often greatly to a woman's dismay, but nothing can keep a man from falling asleep. Nothing outside that man's will, and even when the man rises up and says that he will stave off sleep at all costs, the will of man is always bested.

So I will point you, you miserable, bearded twat, you sweet creature thirsty for mine bombast, yet who will find only rinds and seeds for it has been suckled clean and scraped out by another already, thus I will point you towards AJ's blog. He's got a great write up on First Blood. And also Sam's blog. He's always got great shit, the kinda shit Agalloch tries to tell you to get away from your fucking stagnant pond/computer monitor and go outside and look at. So at least look at Sam's blog and vicariously experience that shit. If you're on a trip it's probably the next best thing to being on a trip out in the wilderness. I suggest listening to this.

. . .  And more on that later.

You will always have the Dower, but you may not always have me,

21 May, 2012

All flown with wine & insolence . . .

Last Friday, May 18th, I was working out to The Stooges' Fun House when I received a phone call from a number unknown to me or my phone. A 412 number, but a strange number just the same. So I ignored it, kept working out, indulged in my reflection as shown to me via a broken mirror. (My bad.) Could've been Church calling me in early cuz they were busy. Could've been the Taxman. An unnecessary risk, especially with my veins popping as they were at that time. Some minutes later, after I had almost forgotten about the mysterious call altogether, my phone beeped with a new voice mail. I finished my reps, flexed a little, turned around and looked at as much of my back as I could, flexed again, and, finally, listened to the voice mail.

It was from Prof. Anderson, who taught General Literature 1, which, if you'll recall, I had just this semester past. He was calling in regards to my final, which I had taken a few days prior on Monday, May 14th. Though "taken" is a misleading word, isn't it? It implies that there was an exam, a test of skills. And there had not been any real test of skills. Instead, he had assigned to us the task of writing an essay of at least one and a half pages in which we were discuss which piece of literature that the class had gone over, be it play, short story or poem, of which there had been a multitude - with many great works being skimmed, surveyed or tragically abridged - and which of these, and this is what we were to write our final essay about, which of these truncated pieces of literature was our favorite, and why.

Apparently, my essay was so extraordinary it warranted a call from Anderson himself. Now, without going too deeply into detail concerning the matter of his voice mail and our conversation upon my returning his call, which I took still before the mirror, still shirtless and sweaty, without recounting verbatim Prof. Anderson's ego-inflating extolment of my abilities and "raw" talent, or telling you too much about how he predicted that I will someday create the next great existential anti-hero, and without boasting of how hard he laughed when he read certain lines back to me, or how even his wife, whom he was certain would take me for a chauvanist pig, but had to read her my essay anyway because it was just that good, without mentioning too much about how even his wife delighted in my paper, I will, instead, transcribe my final (for it is handwritten, by mine own red right hand, a favorite playground for the dread Black Odalisque) so that you, you unworthy peon, you damp and shitty lazar, may look upon my works, ye puny, and despair . . .

So, without further ado, here is the much acclaimed final essay written for my General Literature 1 course for the vernal semester 2012. Praise be to Belial.

(I've elected, so as to preserve authenticity and candidacy, to keep all grammatical and spelling errors.)

David Pearce
Gen. Lit. 1 Final

     Truth be told, regarding the assigned topic of this final essay, that being "What was my favorite thing about this course?," truth be told, the answer, resounding dankly from the within the darkness of my cave, would be Miss Casey F-----, neighbor to my right; specifically speaking: her legs. Damn you, Apollo, for laying across those smooth contours, where never a hint of budding, prickly down is to be evinced. Damn you, Apollo, for casting your humor to illumine them which so besot me! Even now I am transfixed by their hairless lengths and their ensanguined hue in my periphery. And as I write this, my final essay for a college course, community or not, I do so with the utmost confidence that if you, Anderson, were sitting here now, and had sat here all semester, as I do, and have, you would be writing near-identical words. God, how those poles of silken flesh inflame my senses and urge me, like good stories will, to seek their denouement!
     On the first day of class, when you, Professor Anderson, spoke to us in fluent Beowulf, my attention was even then divided, though that which I paid you was certainly impressed and enthralled. But the other part of me, that part that is crouched on his haunches amidst the phallic stalagmites and hanging stalactites like the teeth of some sensualist beast, that part of me, even while you snarled at us as if we were the very carousing revelrers of yore, as if this tiny, well-lit classroom was the meadhall in which stories like Beowulf were first sung, even then, Anderson, may God have mercy on my wanton soul, for it was His Divine Wisdom that, after all, made me an insatiable satyr, even then I was staring at, longing for, and nearly drooling over Miss F-----'s perfect gams.
     For yet another illustration of how her legs tortured me: when the Wife of Bath revealed her aged-to-perfection coquettishness, it was Miss F-----'s legs I saw dangling over the cart's edge, from out a large umbrella dress, on their to see where the holy blissful martir, St. Thomas Beckett, had been martired.
     And in Hamlet, when he's got Ophelia cornered, and he's screaming and spitting at her for her lying to him . . . Well, you get the picture. So much that I probably don't have to tell you that every model Billy Collins described in "Victoria's Secret" was Miss F-----, and that that poem and its accompanying imagery especially made my toes curl! And the Edna St. Millais poems? I nearly wept at the idea of Miss F----- becoming somehow sexually obsolete through aging. The horror of those legs as vericose, wrinkly things! No, it's too much to even think about it!
     Though my attention was always divided, Miss F-----'s legs were something of an invigorating potation, and each new draught gave every class's lesson extra - though sometimes too much - loveliness. It was a great semester, and I, too, wish it could've been a year instead of half, and not only because I was finally starting to get somewhere with Casey, but because you're a wise, erudite, funny & cool teacher and I've learned much from you. Mostly, to go for it. To write a final about my classmate's legs and not look back. And that Shakespeare rules.
     See you around, Anderson. Have a good one.

Not much in the way of length, and way more semblance than substance, but it was fun to write and genuinely inspired. And who knows? Someday you might hear tell of a book written by one Mr. David "Dutch" Pearce that's supposedly everything you love about Charles Bukowski, Chuck Palahniuk, Jimmy Kimmel and Tucker Max rolled into one sexy, genius novel. But let's hope not. 

Find within myself the strength to stumble again,

20 May, 2012

Live long enough to see yourself become

Love believes all - and yet is never deceived.

Start a new job on Monday.

Gonna have my nights and weekends off now, free to do whatever I want every night, every weekend, even if I'll be too poor to do anything worth doing.

Moving out of Our Den of Iniquity; riding my bike to work; packing my lunch. Finally using my brain instead of my back. Hope it's not all too much at once for my simple mind, but I'm ready for 'em. Changes are long past due.

Check back for future updates, demo reviews, benighted miscellany and cyber bric-a-brac.

See y'all on the other side of 27. 

17 May, 2012

Goat Song.

Last night, Tragedy played here twice. First at The Shop just down the street from me with locals Channel Scorpion News (featuring a short-haired Ed Steck formerly of Brain Handle), Zeitgeist (whose singer dances at a local gentleman's club and gave my friend not one but two lapdances a week or so ago), and Ratface (featuring the omnicool Jimmy Rose). Tragedy was too good and I moshed too hard too early and had to go outside and eat ice cream on the sidewalk. For the first time in my whole life, I drank an entire six of High Life pounders by myself. I'm not a heavy drinker, not at all, but I guess I just needed it last night. And a bunch of people were there I haven't seen probably since the last time I saw Tragedy at the Lawrenceville Moose like four years ago. Some gained weight, some just got out of rehab, some have kids now, but mostly nothing's changed for any of us. We're all just a little older and not necessarily wiser, but certainly less concerned with trivial shit.

Then, around 10, after Tragedy was done, me and Sean Simpson from Möwer & Liebestod got a ride with Dave Drug Lust and his girlfriend, Emily, who used to sing for Masochrist, to the second Tragedy show up in Mt. Wa(r)shington. First we stopped at Dave and Emily's house to meet their cat and talk about Stephen King and sit crossed-legged in a tight circle and laugh at each others nonsensical jokes. We talked about horses, too. I related my dad's account of my family's horse's funeral from a few years ago. Why do I love to talk about the death of animals so much?

Anyway, on the second show, which was a basement show, was Negative Standards from California, Bacchus from Ireland, Torch Runner from North Carolina, Pray For Teeth from around here and Tragedy headlined. Not sure how it all went down, as we left after only two bands (Negative Standards, who sounded like The Minor Times and Burnt By The Sun, but, obvy, not as much like Burnt By The Sun as Argonauts do, who I also saw in a basement a few weeks ago, and Bacchus, who killed it and were so Irish it was like they were faking it). Dave had work in the morning, and he was my ride home, so I had to leave before seeing Torch Runner and Tragedy. Major bummer, but I had a great night and now you, you woe begotten excuse for a living creature, you lousy, scab-covered supplicant, have got a shit-ton of l0nks to click.

15 May, 2012

Demons Renewed!

It's been too long . . . No time for pussyfootin' around here. I'm a man that wants to get right down to it. Kinda anxious to get to it, I am.

Imprecation's Jehovah Denied (2012)
Imprecation give no warning before they destroy you with this demo! The first song comes on like a monster smashing through your wall. No feedback, no introductory ambiance. An open chord with crushing cymbals and a hollow growl. Like a door slamming behind you. You're in the Chapel of Rotting Flesh! Next up is the track "Hosanna ex Inferis," - great song title, incidentally - which sees Imprecation showing their blackened roots, but only by plowing through the forest of their grim past in the form of a slow-moving bulldozer of death metal, felling all in its path, leaving a buffet for the scavengers in its terrible wake! (Really wish I could find the lyrics to these songs.  It'd be great to read what specifically is being hasanna'd in Hell!) Then tertiary is supposed to be a track called "Storm of the Cloven Hoof," which sounds just incredible, but, alas, MSoD's upload didn't have it. But "Angel of Salvation's Doom" - ha ha! yes! - is right back to it. Slayerin', Throwin' Bolts, even Hatebreedin'.  A real Behemoth of a demo, this one. Gonna have to be satisfied with just a download on this, though. It's already OOP according to Imprecation's Facebook, a destination so sterile and alive it's eerie in its own inverted way. Total refuse! 

Recommended if You Hate: Zao's lyrics but love their breakdowns, poseurs in sleeveless Job For A Cowboy shirts showing off their Job For A Cowboy tattoos, school, work and every moment you spend not getting drunk and shooting your gun at the bonfire.


Stolen from The Come Up: 
 Ryan Nyquist, AKA Brian Nitrous, is a rider I grew up watching. I saw him and Dave Mirra ride in the '97 X Games and I never rode a bike the same way again. The Come Up posted this edit for nostalgic reasons, and appropriately described it as the stuff of video games.(But dude also opens the description with: "This is what happens when a dude is so iced out with X-Games medals he can't get out of bed decides to put work in on a full video section." I love it! But how's he ride if he can't get out of bed? Doesn't matter.

Old Fuck's Old Fuck (2012) 
Old Fuck worship Integrity, smoke pot jamming Electric Wizard wax, work out/get drunk/work out to Cursed and side B of My War, and what Black Metal they can tolerate they think is cool, yeah. So do you know what they sound like yet?  Remember Violence, Violence? Or the former American Nightmare's eponymous seven inch? While Hardcore is an all ages sport, the virulence that fuels it is released from the brain and into the body shortly after a young man or woman's first, real heartbreak. Not sure if this demo was fueled by heartbreak, but all four songs reek with an ammoniac pissed-offedness. They remind me of this killer local band Rabid Pigs that I seen n'other night. (I'll take a shit on your nose if you know what messianic reptile gave Greg and gang they moniker.) But yeah, this demo's pretty sick. Forget whose blog I read about it on. S'got a pit clearing intro and it goes out with a song called "Dick Drip." Sounds like young dudes playing dark hardcore, right? Trust me, though, it's a worthy couple of minutes. Moshes off the beatdown path here and there, flirts with crusty death metal imagery, but, for the mosh part, remains more real than trve.

Acid Mothers Temple And The Cosmic Inferno's
 Starless And Bible Black Sabbath
Can you believe Margaret had this like just lying around her apartment? She'd never even listened to it! Bought it a few years ago on a whim, never got around to jammin' it. I saw it on Tuesday while doing crunches and almost ripped a lat I sprung after it so hard. You know these guys, and you know them to be hard to track down as well. I'm uploading this cuz of how mandatory it is. 

Stolen from The Come Up: Brian Yeagle comes into the Church Brew Works - where yours unruly works as a busboy - all the time. He's always got his cute girlfriend, sometimes he's got his whole fam. I geek out and shake his hand and let him shit on my nose every time he's in. Dude's been gettin' new sponsors left and right. Couldn't be happenin' to a chiller, more humble dude. Look at all that steeze!

Shadair Logoth's Chapter I: The Peddler (2011)

What we've got here is exemplary, even  un-boring, atmospheric BM from the hoary wastes of Minneapolis, Minn. inspired by the fantasy series The Wheel of Time - which I've just now decided I'm going to read so I can be elite and annoyed when Hollywood gets hold of said series and everyone starts reading it everywhere all the time and talking about it incessantly and claiming to have been o.g. fans from the onset, e.g. what's happening as of late with A Song of Fire and Ice, Hunger Games & Gossip Girl. This demo is four songs strong, summoned, evoked and imprisoned within matter by two dudes, one of whom, the vocalist, now screams for WolvHammer, a band into whom I've never really been able to sink my teeth, and - responsible for all instrumentation heard on Chapter I: The Peddler, all of which is awesomely and adeptly performed - the other member used to play guitar for the Metalcore band Nehemiah, whom some of you may remember moshing for very hard indeed. I know I did, and do. And don't go talkin' your shit cuz most of you poseurs were probably still in grade school. Not me. I was in high school! According to SL's metallum, both Greavis and Glutthead (not the artists' actual noms de guerre) played in a band called Iron Thrones, - another fantasy series ref. - and from thence started Shadair Logoth. While these two dudes fail to penetrate the permafrozen earth of modern atmospheric BM, they do present an elegant demonstration of their own take on the genre, withal some cool, but, again, not necessarily new aesthetics. But four songs of good American Black Metal that you can download for free and have pop up at random when you're shuffle jammin' that'll make you blast on your desk with your index fingers is really worth checking out at the very least, ain't it?  (Not to be confused with both or either of Russia's possibly more trve Shadar Logoths.)


Larvae's Demo (2012) 
Some dudes from Ordo Obsidium (which band name translates roughly to "songs about war" or possibly "songs about shit from WoW") figured they'd start a death/doom band, name it something suggestive of death and shortly thereafter (interesting move on making it the plural form), and this three song slider is their primus opus, infested with that hollow, sepulchral timbre all the kids are going crazy for these nights. Well, count me amongst 'em. What, y'all think you the only people hangin' in cemeteries, bombing big ass hills on your Cults and WTPs, drinkin' 40s on mausoleum roofs, and smokin', backs against THE MONOLITH? Shit. Also. It be-fuckin'-hooves me to mention that there's a fistfuls of bloody BM gettin' flung around this demo, too. Ripping West Coast BM mixed with Gothic breakdowns and moments of genuinely inspired metal, and bemused by a black odalisque indeed. And her name is Youth, and she will be break your heart or stop it. Total Refuse!


 Gettin' out while I'm still a Head,


06 May, 2012

Horses' Heads Toward Eternity

Just wrote this essay for my final assignment in English Comp. II. Let me know what you think. Also check out this record. Reminds me of The Red Chord's Clients.

David Pearce
ENG 102
Prof. Pat Patterson
6 May, 2012
Final Poetry Analysis

A Gentleman Caller
Emily Dickinson’s “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.”

                           Poetry is the most ethereal progeny of human language. And the most elusive, though attempts at courtship are often made, usually with hilarious or pitiable endings. (Anyone who’s taken an Intro. to Creative Writing course knows what I’m talking about.)  Poetry is, also, the eldest among her siblings, whose father, we’re told by Poetry herself, was Europa’s brother, the wanderer Cadmus, who founded Thebes and is said to be the first to imprison his thoughts in solid form. Poetry helped raised her brother History, and to this day History bears her influence. Poetry lay with Music and begot Song, and Song is one of our world’s most revered keepers of peace. Sappho knew her well, and no doubt felt her presence as she stood barefoot, lyre in hand, staring deeply into the swirling, wine-dark Aegean below. And as Virginia Woolf took her measured steps, as if beneath a leaden cloak, was that measure not in the strangest spondaic octameter, a final stanza so stressed only the dread goddess Poetry could’ve inspired it? When Rimbaud rejected her, the earth opened up and swallowed him whole.  Certainly, many have survived her attention, and died whispering haikus. But that is neither the rule, nor the exception. So, is it that Poetry drives her vehicles toward destruction herself, or does she select from nature’s culling?  And now we’re beginning to touch upon Poetry’s character, and yet we’d have miles to go before we could even claim to know the shape of her dress, or even the color of her eyes.  Instead let’s look at one example of Poetry’s inspiration in the form of Emily Dickinson, another hapless mortal struck by the goddess’ favor, and her poem “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.”  
                           Good poems are those which can be read once and felt immediately upon reading. The best poems impact the reader instantly, as a good poem will, but leaves him dumb as to its true nature.  From this reader’s perspective, “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” belongs to the latter camp of poems. For instance, it was only after my third, maybe fourth, read that I realized the “house” described in the penultimate stanza is not really a house at all, but is – according to Hamlet’s gravedigger – the strongest structure made by man: the grave. Admittedly, I thought Emily and her considerate gentleman caller were passing through The Shire! What a lovely, little Hobbit home, I imagined Emily thinking as she peered out from the window of the black carriage, in which only she and Immortality were borne. And even with this misunderstanding, what’s really lost in comprehension of the poem?  Even still, it is a slow and pleasant ride, like a Sunday drive, past the “gazing grain,” “the setting sun,” – or, rather, He passed them, so unhurried was their speed – and they passed children at play, “their lessons scarcely done.” Even if her carriage had taken an atavistic detour through The Shire, nothing in the way of emotion is lost. But upon re-reading, and three-reading, and fourth- and fifth-, etc., Emily’s clever metaphor reveals itself. “Ah! I see. It’s not a house at all, but a grave.” And, as simple as this seems, what is it we do in houses? Why, we live in them! And for this reason, Emily and her considerate cabby, only pause before the house, for it is not their destination, merely a stop along the way.
                           The most striking aspect of “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” is its tone of calm, accepting graciousness. Incidentally, we, as readers in the 21st century, also have the pleasure in delighting in the irony of the poet’s hypocrisy, having not only stopped for Death, but called upon him, as a desperate paramour might, no longer able to live out the farce, to continue cuckolding life while her true desire consumed her every thought. But forgetting all that, there’s a peaceful resignation to Emily’s voice as she sings this poem. She fantasizes this voyage as other women might their walk down the aisle toward the church altar. Dressed in a gown whose material is as fine as gossamer, adorned in a light tippet and her only tulle, she imagines herself beautiful, chaste and completely ready to give herself over to her bridegroom, Eternity.