Strange things happened at midday. The glittering sea rose up, moved apart in planes of blatant impossibility; the coral reef and the few stunted palms that clung to the more elevated parts would float up into the sky, would quiver, be plucked apart, run like raindrops on a wire or be repeated as in an odd succession of mirrors. Sometimes land loomed where there was no land and flicked out like a bubble as the children watched. Piggy discounted all this learnedly as a "mirage"; and since no boy could reach even the reef over the stretch of water where the snapping sharks waited, they grew accustomed to these mysteries and ignored them, just as they ignored the miraculous, throbbing stars. At midday the illusions merged into the sky and there the sun gazed down like an angry eye. Then, at the end of the afternoon, the mirage subsided and the horizon became level and blue and clipped as the sun decline. That was another time of comparative coolness but menaced by the coming of the dark. When the sun sank, darkness dropped on the island like an extinguisher and soon the shelters were full of restlessness, under the remote stars. - From "4. Painted Faces and Long Hair" of William Golding's Lord of the Flies.
26 July, 2012
Lookin' for meat!
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
- Wilfred Owen, KIA November 4th, 1918, one week before the Armistice.
In his book Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut calls WWII the Western World's second attempt at suicide. WWI being our first.
In the opening lines of "Rapture of Time," - after that third track surges forth like an advancing march, thousands strong - Trenchgrinder's Owen Rundquist snarls: "To die is the destiny of man/All life comes to mean one thing/Funeral/Cessation."
And the rest of the demo's lyrics follow suit. Sticking primarily to abstract Metal idioms concerning the jaws of death opening up, and the lamb being lead to the slaughter, and thoughts in dissonance/acts of malevolence, etc. But occasionally, Trenchgrinder will stab into something more visceral, something more concrete, like the Wilfred Owen poem above. Something that smears a gorey image throughout your otherwise indifferent mind. And it's during these times, when buzzsaw riffs flourish like bellicose clarions and Dorian drums blast like a torrent of gunfire through your skull (definitely listen to this demo on headphones), it's amidst these disorienting barrages of martial disharmony, when the band sounds like Mayhem Deathcrush-era covering early Bolt Thrower, Brooklyn's Trenchgrinder becomes something more than just another war-themed blackened death metal band. The band's sound becomes war itself. Even if you'd prefer not to, you will see the carnage of war open up before you. A panaroma of the dead and dying, like Bruegel the Elder's The Triump of Death. The smokey waste of No Man's Land sprawls in all directions. Dripping chunks of exploded human hang from barbed wire. Wheeling black birds of prey alight to devour the grey flesh of friends and foemen alike. A rat gnaws on your boot, unabashed, impervious to your kicks. Your buddy tries to shout something at you, but a mortar shell interrupts him.
When I was a young punk teenager, it took me some pondering to understand that Slayer's "Angel of Death" was not so much a pep rally for the Holocaust as it was a brutal reminder of what atrocities humans are capable of commiting upon one another; sometimes given no more than the opportunity and the "go ahead." And we metalheads are a fucked up lot. Let's not pretend otherwise. We might have families and friends we love very much; we might enjoy "normal" activities like baseball or frisbee golf or catching a beer with our old man; and some of us may even be able to attend religious ceremonies without going into anaphylactic shock. But the fact remains: we're not "right," as it were. Don't worry, I'm not about to say Metal is the reason for war and death and destruction, not at all. But Metal is the torchbearer of those truths, reminding society that war is out there. So Trenchgrinder succeed, then, in not only reminding us that we as a people are still killing each other over money and borders and decisions made by people we'll never see beyond the second dimension, but also in putting out a demo that, if such a thing were possible, Wilfred Owen himself would mosh hard as fuck for!
Posted by Raze Hell at 8:48 AM
23 July, 2012
|Took Chris to the MedExpress cuz he and Matt wrecked their bikes into each other and Chris got a chunk bit outta his leg by Matt's bike and that shit got infected real bad and was like all puffy and maggot-filled by the time we decided to do something about it. This picture was taken before he lost the leg. Yes, he's jackin' it also.|
|Do you not think so far ahead? Cuz I been thinkin' 'bout forever.|
|Ben pirating a show at the Shop.|
|Kaitlyn and Nathan at Pop's wake. My niece and my cousin, respectively.|
|Coming soon . . .|
Posted by Raze Hell at 6:41 AM
20 July, 2012
The mouse fell into the glue trap early in the morning, hours before the new busboy’s first shift.
Scurrying along the stainless steel counter, the mouse tripped – as even mice will do – and fell some three feet to land on a piece of cardboard smeared with a heavy duty adhesive. On its back with a soft thump and a tiny squeak like a rubber dog toy. The mouse’s lower half, its tail and its grey little butt, landed in the glue and stuck instantly. The mouse fought and wrestled and kicked its feet in the air. For hours the mouse struggled to flip itself over.
The new busboy’s shift started at eleven, but he got there early and went around introducing himself. He tried to get everyone, but a few did manage to elude his handshake and smile. And when it got nigh eleven, the new busboy went to the men’s room and changed in one of the stalls. He had to wear an apron. He wrapped the strings twice around his waist and tied a bow in the front, which he tucked up and under his black canvas belt. His first objective, so they could open the pizza station, was to gather up the glue traps there that had been laid out the night prior.
The mouse stopped writhing when it heard the new busboy’s approaching footfalls.
The new busboy started when he saw the little grey and brown mouse stuck in the glue trap.
The mouse took to flailing around against the trap again.
The new busboy approached warily and snatched up the piece of cardboard by the furthest most corner from the mouse. He ran out of the pizza station and out through the backdoor holding the glue trap with the mouse dangling upside down from it. He had a look on his face.
The mouse saw the ground fall away and was once more still.
The new busboy went out to the back parking lot and he laid the piece of cardboard down on the ground with care.
The mouse’s chest heaved rapidly, but it did not move otherwise.
The new busboy raised his foot over it.
The mouse started struggling again beneath the shadow of the new busboy’s black non-slip shoes.
The new busboy dropped his foot beside the trap and sighed. Then he snapped his fingers and pulled his keys from his black pants and crouched over the stuck mouse. Slowly he slid a car key under the mouse’s butt and started making to pry the mouse from off the cardboard.
The mouse squealed as a hunk of its buttskin ripped away and remained fast in the glue.
The new busboy quickly pulled away the bloody key and covered his mouth with his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasped.
A fat rain drop fell on his head and the new busboy picked up the trap and carried it to the dumpster with the mouse still hanging from it.
“I’m really sorry, little critter,” the new busboy said as he closed the dumpster lid.
In the afternoon there was a heavy thunderstorm and the dumpster flooded and the mouse was liberated because it drowned.
Posted by Raze Hell at 5:05 PM
16 July, 2012
I know I ain't yet did Week in Review this week. Had to change some shit up, but I'll get around to it. In the meantime, here's the new Ice Dragon. It is fucking chill, y'all. So this post is therefore dedicated to the most chill 24/7 dude I know, my boy, Tim.
Posted by Raze Hell at 5:10 PM
10 July, 2012
Or; Pondering That Which Cannot Be Looked Upon Yet Casts Its Shadow Over All.
A couple weeks ago I arrived at campus, sweaty and out of breath from riding my bike, and upon tethering my steed to the rack, I felt a terrible stinging itchiness on my right wrist. Before I could examine my wrist several black-and-yellow dots came kamikaze-ing towards my face. I am typically slow to act and somewhat slow-witted, but fear took hold of me then and I ducked away and sprinted up the sidewalk. A fucking miasma of yellow jackets hung around the bike rack, so I waited for a few moments. One had bit my wrist for sure, but nowhere else I could see or feel. The swarm had not really dissipated all that much, but thankfully it had not diffused either. The yellow jackets must've built their nest in the bike rack. I considered that the nest had not been there yesterday afternoon and, with no little admiration/awareness for my enemy's strength, I gathered my balls up into my guts and ran helmetfirst into that savage territory. The air was alive with those nasty little fuckers, like some kind of infernal hail storm. I grabbed my steed, dodged the anthropomorphic fist they had formed and swung haymaker-style at me, and scrambled my swampass all the way up to the entrance to Milton Hall where sometimes Dr. Sweet sits and smokes his pipe and peers out across the student body-speckled landscape. Dr. Sweet was not there that day. But some of the maintenance guys were. So, breathing super hard, sweating even harder, like sloshing when I moved I was sweating so much, with a tinny cacophony coming from my collar where my earbuds hung, I went up to the maintenance workers, CCAC employess, just like myself. Said "excuse me" a couple times before they acknowledged me. They were climbing into a CCAC truck, all three of them, going to do godknowswhat, but certainly not something that would get their clothes dirty, or ruin the toothpick dude's perfectly gelled&sculpted hair. I was having trouble breathing and therefore communicating cuz I had yet to use my inhaler. This was an emergency as far as I could see. Those racks get full by eleven. The next student was bound to get bit just as I had and perhaps somewhere less innocuous than the wrist. He or she might get bit on his peen or her cookie or one of her boobies. Or both of her boobies! So you see what I'm saying here? This was a dire situation! I could not abide the risk of a swollen cookie! Finally the white haired guy in the white painter's suit asked me where I meant. "The rack down by the Coliseum," I said. "The Coliseum?" "I mean the Amphitheatre thing. Down there. On the other side of those bushes." "Tell Security," he told me, then closed the truck door, started the truck up and turned away to back out. So I went and told Security. The first guy I saw was this older dude who goes around on a golf cart since he hurt his leg. When he's off the cart, he walks with a cane. Dude actually seemed pumped for something to do. And he stopped the cart to talk to me. Guess he could just tell by my face that I needed some help. So I rode down behind him and we halted to give like a fifteen foot berth from the rack. "Okay, yeah. I see 'em," he said, seriously sounding pumped. I wheezily offered to help him destroy the yellow jackets and their young, but he said that that was probably a violation against college policy or something. I really didn't need that much convincing. I thanked him for his diligence and tethered my steed elsewhere. When I went back to the rack later that day, as I was leaving, just to check it out, I saw that other bikes had since been locked up, but still I kept my distance. From about ten feet away I threw my helmet at the rack and it hit with a loud metallic clang. I waited a second. But nothing happened. The next day I saw the Security guy sitting in his cart eating an ice cream sandwich. I thanked him and asked how it went, if he got bit. "Nah, they didn't sting me. I kept far back and sprayed 'em and they just dropped."
Today I was sitting at the computer when the blasted thrumming of black wings caused me to nearly jump beneath my desk. Then the source of that awful sound soared into my vision. A blue-black wasp, easily six inches in length, with dangling blue legs. A prehistoric thing, and it carved on its blast-beating wings and came flying straight at me! Gah! It's the Wraiths of the Bee Kingdom come to exact their revenge on he who snitched on their Yellow Jacket Warriors secret training ground, I thought. "Holy shit!" I said without meaning to. Only Nancy, Jennifer and Seth were around. No students, thankfully. Nancy and Jennifer are my bosses. But Seth is just another tutor like me. But so much more. Okay, Seth is like Superman just showing up to work as Superman and being like "Fuck this fake identity shit. I'm Superman." Dude is tall, tan, good looking, eloquent, wears athletic shorts and clean shirts from recent volley ball tournaments, and he's brilliant at Math. Great tutor, too. He's enthusiastic and he respects and hears out every dumb thing you might say. So Seth comes running out of his and Nancy's office. I'm standing up with my panties in a twist, watching the wasp bump into the fluorescent light above the computer. Nancy and Jennifer come out, but stayed in the thresholds of their offices. "Thing tried to bite my face off!" I told Seth, and noticed that it seemed to have shrunk since I last seen it. "Oh yeah! He's a big guy! Let's get him out of here, shall we? Yeah, I think that's a good idea. We don't need any face-biting bugs flying around in here, harassing our tutors, frightening our students. This guy probably doesn't the first thing about the FOIL method," Seth said as he removed some paper towels from a roll we keep at one of the tables where people eat and get tutored. The wasp flew over and landed on the wall. It's blue-black now seemed colorful and harmless against the austere white brickwall as it submitted to its execution. He took like a foot of paper towel, folded it once and just grabbed the thing off the wall. "And now we will go ceremoniously flush our friend," he said as he walked to the men's room, but he went alone.
09 July, 2012
The Dower of Refuse Presents . . .
THE WEEK IN REVIEW
July 2nd - July 8th
Posted by Raze Hell at 11:54 AM
07 July, 2012
More like The Pooped-On-Alot Shore.
This is the kind of record that's playing when your punk roommate comes home with all his punk cronies and you get embarrassed because they already think of you as the guy who indiscriminately loves all metal and then there you are listening to this fucking melodramatic pleather-clad blue denim suckfest. And it's not like when they said Hammers of Misfortune sounded like Enrique Iglesias. That was just ignorant. In fact, your roommate doesn't say anything this time. For once he's without some half-witted snarky remark, like how every time you play The Black Angels he asks you if it's 'The Red Hot Chili Peppers?' But they just go straight into the living room. Probably they're making fun of you, cuz you're jamming The Plutonian Shore pretty loud and you can't hear shit besides this impotent attempt at epicacy. You heard only the door as it slammed during one of the band's tangent into an adult contempo Enslaved-y part.
So what do you do? Well you quickly switch on Master's eponymous masterpiece, then you delete everything you had written before about how during the turn of the century college-metalheads wanted to rip off At The Gates and In Flames and other shit like that but now American metaldweebs wanna rip off like fucking Emperor and Dark Throne and Enslaved, etc. and how post-post-modern music trends can be perfectly summed up by the the image used by TOOL of the ouroboros-like autofellating man featured on the back of that TOOL shirt Cody Evanick had, you even delete the super profound Cioran quote about how art has become at once impossible and fucking easy, and then you get up and you walk out into the living room. Yes, I know you're in your underwear, but fuck them. You're also wearing a sleeveless tan His Hero Is Gone shirt, so def. fuck them. And then you barge into their conversation, your dick and/or tits swinging, and you even manage to inveigle your hack-squat-carved ass another one of your roommate's Golden Monkeys. Well done, sir/ma'am. Abd all to the soundtrack of Master's Master. The pretty androgynous one in the ENDLESS BLOCKADE tanktop will completely forget that you were ever listening to Arbor when they catch your moist balls and/or moist swinging labia with their youthful and pimply face as you expertly pour yourself another GM - only as much head as necessary, which is very little, and only that beginning, after which: it's all body, baby!
By now your beer's half-gone and your roommates are presently being subjected to Master's amazing rendish of your fav BS song OAT "Chil'ren of the Grave" from out that blackened maw ov infernal and enseamed dwellings, a.k.a. your bedroom, and now look here: the hazy susan has spun your way: a fat old j-cat with long tendril-y whiskers. You've almost completely forgotten you were even once listening to Arbor's The Plutonian Shore.
03 July, 2012
01 July, 2012
The Dower of Refuse Presents . . .
THE WEEK IN REVIEW
June 23rd - July 1st, 2012
Riding To & From Work Album of the Week:
(1980, Columbia Records)
Ain't gonna be like every other bloggart out there and call you a poser if you haven't already got this one. Why would I be posting it if I thought it was that ubiquitous? However, I will call you a homophobe if you don't like Judas Priest. No excuses. You either suck this bands' collective throbbing dick or you're a fucking scumbag homophobic hatemonger. You are lukewarm and I spit you from my mouth! This record gets my blood flowin', my legs pumpin', and at several points last week - mostly on my way home, when I was racing back to hang with my roomz and watch some leftöver Colbert - it almost got me kil'd. So what about you? Had enough of being programmed and told what to do? Then check this out if you've never before. It's a classic for a reason. Plus it's Pride Month!
Writing At Work Album of the Week:
(2011, Inimical Records/Sabotage Records)
Excerpt from "Blessed Are the Barren" by David Dutch Pearce:
“Man, this place fucking rules!” Ty - one of her friend’s - exalts Pusher Throne in between gulps of a pounder. Cross-legged on the wood floor, he points with his beer and cigarette in hand: “Like just like look at that fucking wall! That dismal fucking grey! All bare and undecorated. Anyone else feel like they can actually fathom the reality of dying just concentrating on that wall?” A bowl smokes from somewhere in his lap.
Sprawled across the loveseat in S formation Mickey reaches down beside Ty and flicks her cigarette ash into an empty beer can.
Someone beside Ty but eclipsed by him says: “No such thing. Reality is a misconception exclusive to the living.”
The room is crowded with her friends. Ren’s friends are mostly in the kitchen. A few collar-sweaters have stumbled in to get high. But it’s mostly punks and crusties leaning against the greystone walls. Usually they would mark such walls with their runes and secret glyphs. But inside Pusher Throne their hands are reticent. Partying hard as ever but absorbing rather than staining the atmosphere. Ren’s brother Blake is in town. His band played down the street. Mickey forgets their name. Black or Doom something. But they were cool. Most of Mickey’s friends were going to the show anyway. Now they’re all here in her living room. Hers and Ren’s living room.
The Crowes have come up as well. They’re in the kitchen sucking the youth out of Ren’s gullible friends. Demian had no small hand in procuring Ren her new job at Iron City Press after the previous music editor Andy Goldsworthy precipitated himself from the Panther Hollow Bridge. Mr. Crowe had come up with the news himself. Insisted the young women throw a party. Shifted volubly between a maudlin elegy for Ren's fallen colleague and a congratulatory boastfulness for having secured Ren an interview for the newly vacated editor position. Handed his credit card to Ren and insisted the party be grand. Ren had been sorta close with Andy though they hung out little outside the office. Ren had always respected him but knew little about him beyond what he thought of select bands’ new records and TV shows they had in common. He was talented and prolific. Believed his writing was a craft like carpentry or skateboarding that with practice and repetition would come eventual greatness. At least self-satisfaction. Strange then that he’d left no note. Which Ren had mentioned to Mickey. Word got out quick about Ren getting the promotion. Jezebel had called her for an interview. It was an icky situation indeed Ren agreed with the reporter but then brought up the iconic image of Jackie O still wearing her outfit ruined with her husband’s gore at LBJ’s emergency swearing in and added: “Not that that’s like really the same thing or anything.”
Death Grips' The Money Store
Fuck yeah! For the past couple weeks I've had the campus gym all to myself but lately there've been all these big football player dudes in there, and every one one of them lifts like ten times more than I can. But they're cool dudes. The one guy Rondell - he's about 20, weighs like 240 - gave me a great tip on my dead lifts. I had this on the stereo when he came in with a few friends on Monday. They didn't say if they were into it, but they lifted hard and the air became charged with a visceral energy you really can't find outside of a community college gym crowded with sweaty young men pumping iron to brutal hip-hop.
Skydiving With My Sister
My mom took the pictures.
|Still hours away from the action.|
|No one seemed to believe me that I really wasn't skeered, so let this picture be proof: I weren't skeered.|
|My sister on the other hand . . .|
|Fuckin' A! Slipknot rules!|
|Uhh huh huhuh huhhuh|
|I'm gonna miss you, too, she said, send me a postcard, let me know what Hell's like.|
|It's the harness making me slouch.|
|Beside me in this picture is my instructor, Don Schaub - dude ate like a dozen freeze pops during the time I was with him - and my cameraman, Aaron, whose presence I found just a bit unnerving.|
|I was hearing this.|
|It's a Beech 99.|
|Mine's the red white and blue chute - of course - in the bottom left corner. On the way down I asked Don if he was French and he said no, then I asked if it was that color for America and he said no, it was just the color they gave him.|
|Them Nikes look fresh skiddin into terra firma though don't they?|
|My sister jumped out first but landed after me somehow.|
|"To be born again, first you have to die. To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry?"|
Posted by Raze Hell at 11:43 AM