Blacker Than the Blackest Black Times Infinity

Here is a winding, lengthy tome about my continuing musical evolution, currently defined by the darkest of all music genres, metal.

Photo of Immortal black metal band members

Abbath Does Matrix Bullet Time While Horgh Encourages Him

Music In the Womb

It all started in the family.

I was exposed to metal at the tender age of five or something, when I sang “Sweet Child O’ Mine” whilst my uncle played the lead guitar accompaniment. It helped a lot that the boys’ room was plastered by old-school posters of James Hetfield and the gang. My uncle’s rabble-rousing, loud band of college friends came over to our house for some beer and shredding, and he would headbang repeatedly, Slash-like curls of black hair bouncing around in sonic oblivion. The grating sound of guitars and the thumping, wild drumming fascinated me; the rest of the time it gave me associative nightmares like seeing your aunties having their brains microwaved for consumption by insane metal brothers.

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Binary Baby Steps

wurld dominashun

Jumpstarting the dormant blog because of financial desperation. Ha-ha.

No, seriously. I’m conceptualizing the beginnings of a formal online presence. A content-heavy, SEO-flirty, business-ready powerhouse web address showcasing my profound talents in several areas: web design and development, programming, writing, photography and graphic design.

Excuse the hyperbole. After all, creative advertising is the name of the game.

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of death and anticipation and a living celebration

first of all, peace to francis magalona. a courageous battle indeed… some people never die because they never lived (thanks mick). he wasn’t one of them. he died, a full-throated screaming punctuation of a life well-lived.

i’ll probably slink away quietly, pathetically, dying of some malaise of the soul. blogging on borrowed time helps delay the inevitable. i still wish to be buried in a ferrari, so i have to spend my waking hours slaving away to pay for my extravagant burial. says something about my outlook in (the after)life…

and i just got my copy of sylvia plath’s ariel. the restored version, as differentiated from the supposedly bastardized version that ted hughes masterminded. i have been leafing through it. a reproduction of the original manuscript of lady lazarus was reason enough to buy it.

i almost bought another hp lovecraft compilation, too. i hesitated because the book was in bad condition for something that expensive, and half of the short stories there were already in the two other compilations that i had.

anyway, i have an .html file of all his stories… but dead tree editions are so much more tangible. and easier to read. i’m an old fogey. i like the smell of yellowed books. they print the new ones on acid-free paper. takes the charm of rotting books away.

also managed to acquire a very tattered copy of fables for a hundred bucks. it pains me to see a comic book treated as such, but then i hope it got battered because of the constant, loving, thumbing-thru reading that penniless readers often do in national bookstore. issues 11-18 was about big bad wolf getting snow white preggers.

dammit. wolves.

if it’s any consolation, i still have that temple of the dog CD that i always forgot to give you. and the discount card. and that pack of frenzy.

and that last memory of your artifacts on a table, under the light of a jaundiced lamp: a lighter, a sony ericsson cellphone, a pack of marlboros, a couple of law books, some coins.

cthulhu lovin’

riled up, i am, because it seems that i will be unable to shimmy my ass to the UP Fair due to grandparental restrictions. but, as i’ve said, i’m gonna play nice and sublimate all my tempestuous energies into something more productive. that’s the adult way, you know. beat up a couple of naked underage girls after you’ve lost a big sale… so, make me happy!

a cthulhu chess set!

a clearinghouse for darkly funny fashion… plunge into the abyss here.

basically i just moped online looking for hp lovecraft nuggets, while intermittently staring at my cute pug wallpaper. console me, my terrier-japanese spitz mongrel Porky just died, and i am ready to honor his memory by replacing him with an absolutely horrid-looking yet adorable pug. me want pug.

oh, and i have to type this lovecraft-inspired dream down. it’s so bizarre. i might have been reading one of his cannibalism stories again. anyway, in that dream, me and a group of friends were traveling home, when one of us decided to ask the driver to make a detour and visit the home of a strange cult, you know, for anthropological curiosity’s sake. cue dark warehouse in the midst of a forested nowhere, with a tall thin man with stringy straight hair to his shoulders leading the worshippers in some strange rite. and lo! when i look inside the door, there is this naked (yeah, naked!) woman with one leg sawn off at the knee, lying in a basin of blood.

she was alive, in a trance, and chanting. and there were huge gouges of flesh bitten off her other thigh, the one which still had a leg attached to it. then said cult leader comes up to us and invites us to observe and make ourselves at home. coming up to me he gives me this long, deep sniff, as if he was trying to ascertain how tasty i was from the way i smelled. basta this animal, hungry sniffing.

so, trying to act intellectual and relatively unaffected by the gruesome rites, i asked a woman what they were doing a few moments earlier. apparently they were savoring the meat of a willing sacrifice, something spiritual about eating someone who’s still alive and willing to be eaten, right?

then we all went home, but we were quite surprised to find out that only three of us alighted from the bus. i swear on azathoth’s unspoken name, the bus was full of people.

then i woke up in a sweat, proceeded to sleep again and dream of going around in my dreamland version of greenbelt looking for a starbucks. i dunno why, i already passed a CBTL and a seattle’s best at the last corner, now i’m at the fruit market but can’t find my coffee fix.