bushiest beaver.

Sorry. Not a lot of time to devote to the 'blog' today, but i'll post this for your viewing pleasure.

bottoms up.

If there's one thing that I'm good at, it's air hockey. (number 26 in the world... thanks.) That being said, it should be pointed out that I am, therefore, pretty much good at nothing. Being good at air hockey is pretty much like being good at masturbating: chicks most definitely aren't impressed, and dudes couldn't really give a shit, but it's fun, so you keep doing it.
Anyhow, the other thing I like to devote time to is getting drunk after work and on weekends. and so, ladies and germs, I present you with...

THE FAST ACTION GUIDE TO GETTING HAMMERED IN ATLANTA. Part One.


The Universal Joint, Oakhurst

God knows I spend a lot of time at this place. But, in my defense, it's wicked close to my house, and it has ended up as my default destination when I don't really feel like making a big production out of grabbing a beer or two... or eight. Anyhow, they have a decent patio and... uh. Lots of families and lesbians hang out there, and I like to pretend that they all glare at each other and seethe over each others' lifestyle. They probably don't though. Since beer is unreasonably pricey there, the best way to roll through that place (I have found) is to bring a bag and hit up the 'hop-n-shop' located conveniently behind the place and supplement bought beers with bag beers.

Unofficial fast action correspondent 'weird beard' works there. photo artfully 'vignetted' to protect identity.



The Brewhouse 'Cafe', Little Five Points

I have always had a love/hate relationship with this place. On one hand, they have a kickass patio right on Moreland Ave. This makes for awesome spring afternoons spent drinking beers while watching suburban dorks laden with bags of shit from Junkman's Daughter, shitty squatter kids trying to scare money from said suburban dorks, and bums and very-soon-to-be bums who will recite shitty 'poetry' to you for a dollar.
HOWEVER, the place is also a hugely popular 'football' bar. Not football, football. Football gay. If you end up there at the wrong time, which is completely random since the whole fucking world is retarded over soccer and they always broadcast live games from everywhere, chances are you can kiss service goodbye and replace it with drunk europeans standing on stools and singing Oasis. Eleven dollar buckets of 16s of Pabst are truly the way to roll here, and if you establish yourself a a regular, they'll often throw in a free sixth beer so you and your buddy won't have to fight over the last one.



East Atlanta Restaurant and Lounge.

Don't call it that, though. It's the Earl. Just the Earl. Anyhow, this place is noteworthy more as a music venue than a proper bar, where $2.50 tall boys of Busch will do you just fine. I can't really think of too many negative things to say about the place except that it's always loud, even in the front half, which is separate from the live music.
The back, however, is pretty much one of two places in Atlanta that books good shows. A lot of indie rock stuff pads out the majority of their nights, but i have seen some pretty radical metal shows there, too, in my day. Eyehategod comes to mind. So does Early Man and Skeletonwitch. Oh yeah, enemymine played there too (bitchin').

Tomorrow, i will be nicer than ever.

some people will tell you i am handsome and rugged. some will call me reckless, with no concern for my well being. some will tell you i have a dumb sense of humor and talk about 'metal' too much. i have been called a dick, a prick, a fucker and a turd. someone once said 'i love you' to me with a straight face, and some say i am retarded.
all of these things are true. and while i can't say how i have come to acquire all of these adjectives over the years, i WILL say that i wear them every day. and i suppose we're all as complex as i am, each of us deserving thorough investigation of our characters before we are to be truly understood by others in this vast world around us.

this is an artist's rendition of my heart.



but i still think sharon osbourne is an asshole.


this is nothing irrational. it seems a small coincidence to me that the instant she took on her role as ozzy's 'manager' the 'prince of darkness' would begin his unfortunate downward spiral from fronting one of the world's most influential bands, to being ridiculed on national television,to this idiotic nonsense...

'i'm... wait... who am i? i want to go home now, i'm 60 years old" p.s. since 1979? you're saying you've become MORE evil post sabbath? or were you the 'fuckin' KING of darkness!' when you were slaying the universe with 'megalomania' in '75? with all of my heart i want to believe the latter.

i'm all for capitalism and 'getting yours', but i kind of think it's about time to let the poor guy ride out his last days with a bit of dignity. sure, it's funny as hell to watch some doddering old, grand mal suffering dude get frustrated by a state-of-the-art remote control, but picking on the elderly is kind of like booing at the special olympics. awesome, but in poor taste. i'll say this in all honesty too. i don't know what old john's day-to-day consists of, but if 'the osbournes' was at all accurate, he most probably just wants to be left alone to reflect upon his life instead of being forced into series of wacky antics by a slightly deranged manager and wife in the name of making a buck. and then there's this...


words.... fail... me... this karaoke nightmare, doubtlessly constructed to give the necessary shot in the arm to kelly o's obviously pointless 'career', topped the charts in the u.k., making ozzy entitled to some sort of record pertaining to length of time between chart-toppers in england. the first time was with paranoid. anyhow, i just want to know if bill and geezer and tony got to reap any royalties. seriously... i can't find the answer to this question anywhere. the album liner notes say nothing more than 'songs arranged by black sabbath' let me know somebody, please. does anyone even read this crap?

*this just in... weirdbeard seems to think that the osbourne estate can claim ownership to all sabbath material prior to 1978. 1982's 'speak of the devil' album might just testify to that fact. fuck you tony iommi.

at any rate, i won't bother going into the who maiden-vs.-sharon-at-ozzfest debacle right now. i am too sad from coming to terms that i suck for missing them tomorrow.

shut up. i hate myself more than you could possibly hate me.

and at the end of all this, who really know anything? maybe sharon's just looking out for the future of her family. maybe ozzy happily agrees to make a fool of himself. maybe kelly and jack possess some wonderful talent that i am too ignorant to comprehend. maybe it's me who is truly the asshole, but i kinda doubt it.

true tales of 2006

me: at the aquarium, for, like, 8 bucks...

chick: ... after you pay admission, right?

me: yeah. after admission, for, like, 8 bucks, they'll give you a small mesh bag of krill...

chick: krill?

me: yeh, them little shrimp shit things. and you can take this bag of krill and kind of squish it on top of the whale shark tank, and, when the whale shark comes up to eat, if you can manage to punch the shark the fuck out, they'll give you 1,000 dollars.

chick: are you serious?

me: yeah, totally. they've already made enough money to buy, like, 6 more whale sharks already.

chick: they do this at a zoological institution?

me: totally.

chick: that's a fucking OUTRAGE.

raising the flag at iwo jima

back in the day, when i was young and fast and enthusiastic, i found my first true love in the record department of kmart. (YES! they actually sold vinyl at kmart.) it had everything a boy could want.



from the shitty, winged devil skull, to the cool, extra occult-ey looking runes gently framing ozzy's still svelte physique, i knew that no matter what it might be, whatever was contained on that record was bound to be bad as fuck. look at ozzy, circa 1982 for just a sec. go ahead and take it in... i'll wait. now pretend that you are seven years old. holy shit. A) he's vomiting up blood clots. b)he has fucking vampire fangs. c) dig that shitty snarling, on fire... whatever the fuck that thing is tattoo. (i'd put a good chunk of money on at least 1,000 rednecks sporting even shittier versions of that guy as an homage, though if you asked them about it, sabbath would never enter the conversation. i might have to get into the problem with ozzy osbourne later) anyhow, it was on that day that i vowed that i'd be just like the guy on that album cover when i grew up. sadly, i didn't grow up to be 1982 ozzy osbourne, though i still think he was cool as shit.
my point in all of this is that things change. i am no longer seven and in love with 'speak of the devil'. ozzy is shitty and all palsied and retarded. and hot chicks will now have sex with metal dudes.


(my apology for the crappiness of this photo, i couldn't google up a decent image and had to take one myself. note the hooded corpse midget. oz must've used up all the fake blood for the cover, cause his had to be drawn on. c'mon... i was seven and realized how stupid that was.)

in my heyday, back when i could still be troubled to get into a circle pit, metal shows were 98 percent this guy...


these hesher dudes were mostly harmless, though inclined to get too drunk and shout out song titles while pumping their fist. hesher clans kept tabs on their ranks by distinctive calls, used most often to establish proximity to each other, the stage, the bar, etc. "fuuuuuuuuuk yeah?' 'fuuuuuuuuuk yeah!'

you could also be assured to run into at least one, sometimes more of this guy...



these were dudes, usually ten years older than everyone else, who came in from the suburbs with the specific intent to get drunk and punch children. and then there were the women... sigh.


(i wish this were more of an exaggeration. i think i ran into this chick at an assuck show at the blue chair in tampa, ca. 1992)

kids nowadays have it easy. much like punk rockers, older generations of metal heads suffered through crushing celibacy with nothing but napalm death records and furious wack off sessions to any magazine that might have featured lita ford. it was though our effort (that's innaccurate, let's call it stubbornness) that, eventually, metal came to be cool, albeit too often as a source of 'irony'. sure the stoner rock movement had it's merit and i don't know that too many dudes ended up looking like shitbags for fashion's sake. and now thrash is making it's comeback, though most people who rock a nuclear assault shirt nowadays were barely even alive when 'game over' came out. i will not go into the shit genres of metal (dying fetus? darkest hour?) at this point for the sake of keeping on task. i might sound like i'm hating here, but i'm not. because while their complete love and grasp of all things metal may bit a bit fictional, the trim that they attract most certainly is not.
as an experiment... go to a metal show. now, look around. keep looking. see? what did i tell you? these dudes (god love 'em!) who look like they were thrown out of the ymca for being too shitty, are adorned with some pretty cute chicks. and i am not, (NOT!) saying that hot chicks are the norm yet, but neither are the slutty seahags in ratt shirts that were the 'metal mommas' of my day. we can call it evolution. metal has come into the mainstream, if only by a bit, and metal guys have gotten a bit less dorky as fuck. (well, maybe.) so, mr. nasum tee shirt, when you're making your way out of the club at the end of the night on the arm of a pink haired girl in gene simmons shoes, remember the sacrifices made by your forefathers. you're welcome.


(sure she looks dumb as hell, but at least she's not GROSS)

p.s. 'speak of the devil' ,with time, has proved itself to be somewhat of a turd. for those of you who are not familiar, the 'speak' album was recorded after ozzy was kicked out of sabbath and took his songs with him. at any, rate it proved to be more of an omen than anything else. with it's noodly, masturbatory guitars and a bass sound reminiscent of rubber bands taped to a dog turd, it offered the universe it's very first glimpse at the steaming pile that would later be known as 'ozzy's solo stuff'. by the way... if you don't own this album, but hate it, chances are you're a poser.

hello, internet!

so i have a 'blog'. does that make me gay? sort of, but at least i'm not you, though, sitting around reading the dipshittery that will inevitably end up at this place while debating wacking off to myfreepaysite.com. anyhow, i suppose i wouldn't be a very good blogger with a blog for shit if i didn't tell you my agenda, but, unfortunately, i don't really have one. (honestly, i'm off work unexpectedly and am crippled from doing yoga like a dumbass and am not precisely mobile)

and just so you know... despite what he have all been told, yoga class (at least the one i attended) does nothing to bring you any closer to self fellatio. the woman did, however say corny shit like 'namaste' and play an annoying japanese fluteshit cd. you know... the one that goes 'whee-ooooooo' i'll admit though, that it was a pretty cool experience, sans the part about rendering me handicapable. call me gay all you want for taking yoga. i can handle it. i have a 'blog'.


this guy... this fucking guy. i don't care if it's debatable that he's actually deaf. this is some 'art for art's sake' type shit and as such i love it. seriously, if it were humanly possible to marry this guy's rendition of 'aces high' i would. and we'd have a house with a picket fence and all that shit. what makes the above especially poignant is the fact that i have slowly and painfully come to the conclusion that i am going to miss the maiden show in fort lauderdale in two days despite having a ticket. i know i'm gay. i know that missing 'rime of the ancient mariner' to the calloused hands of financial responsibility is about as un-metal as a tangerine. realize, though, that i have forgotten about more things metal than you'll ever know. anyways, as a coping mechanism, i have taken to pretending that this is what bruce et al sound like nowadays.


by the way, i came across this video through the metal inquisition blog, which is, hands down, rad beyond shit.