And what of this confectionary dusting of scarcely visible chick-blond down shadowing - antishadowing I suppose - the curve of his tricep? O long-disavowed splendor, the literally golden boy!



No one shadowed this animal's eyes.

Verbatim, from a community bulletin board posting at my place of employment:

"Join our rally to support the Berkeley Honda strikers and hear the celebrated Bay Area Rockin' Solidarity Labor Heritage Chorus!"

Berkeley: Preemptively Defanging Satire by Satirizing Itself Since 1878.


One thing that unites all the boys I've ever thoroughly lost my shit over: the ability to drive hard, fast and well with two fingers on the wheel and their eyes, far as I can tell, completely covered, be it by hood, hood plus ballcap, hood plus ballcap plus bandanna, etc. Through all the ethnicities, all the musical devotions, all the varieties of impossibleness, that sightless scofflaw motoring links'em all.

The public-policy wisdom of the City of Berkeley's policy of providing, pretty much, permanent-disability-type benefits status to people with facial tattoos is debatable, but it is a boon to me, since it draws the inkfaced to Berkeley and I work in the cheapest "alternative"-ish grocery store in town. My God. Usually more than one per day, Jesus, what else would heaven consist of? (An insightful gay to me, recently: "You know you're not supposed to put brightly-colored jungle frogs in your mouth either, right?")

Two unrelated truths:

Previously unerogenous regions of the skin can be gradually eroticized through frequent and determined touch.

It's common, in cultures with arranged marriages, for a genuine romantic and carnal attachment to develop over time, even when neither partner felt much of anything toward his or her spouse at the time of marriage.

Now, smash these two truths together, and what can be read in shocking pink along the result's side, if held up to strong light? Never encourage your heretofore heterosexual boyfriend to repeatedly make out with dudes. Rumor has it things can jacknife on you pretty quick, however much control you originally held. Rumor has it.

Speaking of chrysalises*, this caterpillar is for real.

*The plural of chrysalis can also be - in fact most often is -"chrysalides". Shimmery!

I envy you people on the outside, unsurrounded by, unintoxicated by drummers. You, never compelled to pursue and possess the Hammer of the Gods, are able to believe drummers have no craft, would never for example heatedly discuss drum motherfucking theory, in nerds-wildin'-out technical detail, over an entire two-hour Korean barbecue meal, despite countless presumably heartbreaking looks of supplicating misery from their tablemate, say.

This kid in my aisle today, debating unscented natural deodorants with his mother, one headphone to his ear, singing along with "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" when not answering his mother's queries with fustily uncreative and toothless sass. Ugggh what is it about Beatles-loving teens that chafes me so smartingly? They look the same everywhere, these kids - shaggy indeterminate haircuts, subtly faggified flannel shirts, hands jammed in pockets, a grossly exaggerated esteem for the shitty fake British accents they employ when quoting goddamn Monty Python. It is a type, right? Can't stand them. And then, this representative did the most obviousest thing ever - really, really, he did it - he asked poor Mom "Hey, you know what 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds' really stands for [sic], right?" I groaned, I groaned aloud. You're trying to alarm your mother with your fondness for a cheery, throwaway novelty pop song nearly forty years old. Please fucking start listening to Slayer or something.

He rolls around corners, this one, lollingly, lopes around them, with a juvenile delinquent's looseness about the head and neck. It seems like it'd take him ten minutes to cross an average-size living room, but he can be suddenly *upon* you, with his practically lurid blue-razzberry irises all aspin. He seems allergic to sleeves of any kind.

It's socially critical, at the moment, that I not snicker at vegans, and I don't snicker now but I do say: rather a gruel-complected lot, aren't they, generally? Their faintly amphibian wanness worn with acrid self-satisfaction, yeah? Then I was introduced to - I'm not supposed to post a thing about all this but what else - this sort of flushed tender apricots 'n' cream dreamwhip skin, that hickies up if one merely talks dirty next to it, and - I'm not supposed to but what else?

[ Secondary post for metalfolk alone: I'm listening to Burzum's "Lost Wisdom" right now - we're trying to drown out the ***Reggae DJ Night*** (WEEKLY EVENT) at Jamaican Soul, right beneath our feet. Anyway - the "hook" or "riff" of this song: it's actually the inverse of a hook somehow, isn't it? The inverse of catchy or melodic, or maybe it's more like a catchy hook span backward by Satan's actual curling talon. It does hook one, but nonconsensually, by one's unwilling gristle.]

The Owls!, they forgot they don't migrate.


Lee thought it was reasonable, was comprehensible to say to me, of a singer in a local metal band, that he's "pretty, pretty like a girl, but kind of a 'dude', uh, long hair, really metal", then imply he was thus not much my type. I haven't hung out with Lee in a couple months, but didn't expect him to forgot everything he'd ever known about me.