...ehjookated whore says...?

Up to this point in history, whatever anyone thought of Mr. Rob Zombie, no one could have accused him of being boring. Regretfully, that state of affairs has changed. I cannot deem the album bad, per se; much like most of Mr. Zombie's various and sundry endeavors, it has its moments. The problem, however, is that it is far more likely to induce narcolepsy than any more agreeable reaction in the listener. The cover art is a wonderful piece of self-fulfilling prophecy: Rob looks old and tired, much like the music itself sounds.

We won't delve into the issue of why it is just wrong to add anyone whose resume includes a stint with Marilyn Manson to the payroll.

The fact is, not a single song on the album has anything akin to a groove. I cannot picture large-breasted women writhing around a brass pole to the accompaniment of any of this music. Hell, I can't even picture a strung-out crack whore swaying slightly in her broken-down fuck-me heels to them.

Very disappointing.

I did, however, get a shiny sticker featuring Mr. Zombie's old, tired mug. Exciting.

Ah well. The new Lacuna Coil album is due out in precisely one week; based upon the soaring "Our Truth", it promises to be a far more satisfactory listen.

Is that guy still around?

...yes, yes, I'm still alive.

...much to the dismay of countless people for whom my very existence is a offense to all that is good and holy. Not that their opinions mean all that much to me.

I should mention to you the most captivating and uplifting tale I have heard of late, brought to my attention by Trapper Bill, who came by the cabin naught but a fortnight hence, and who always shares with me the news of the hillfolk. This particular story concerns a former acquaintance, one Darlene Romney, whose ill-luck is legendary around these parts. She was not what you would call an attractive women, having a face that looked like nothing so much as a Picasso painting, an ass as wide as the day is long, and a number of bald spots resulting from a run of bad perms administered by the local hook-handed beautician, Ella Mae. Well, it seems Darlene got knocked up by a one-legged trucker, and having found herself in the family way, proceeded to seek out whatever man would have her, and promptly settled on the first greasy-headed, child-molesting psychopath she came across, which might come across as rather unseemly, but truth be told, they make quite the pair. The moral of this story? Well, I'm not entirely sure there is one, but if people like this can actually manage to find some approximation of happiness, then there is certainly hope for any and all!

Of course, it also reminds me of the time "Puny" John Ralston went on his public crusade against the wearing of headgear, for which he blamed for his own male pattern baldness. Most everyone around town tolerated his knocking their chapeaus, derbies, bowlers, and other various and sundry headcoverings off with a smile, knowing full well that the gentleman was harmless...but then Puny John set his sights on "Incredibly Fucking Large" Pete's beloved panama hat. Puny John never did learn to speak very well again after that, but he did seem to have learned his lesson about living and letting others live.

Been trying to catch up to some current music, which I am woefully ignorant of, save a handful of bands. I must say that the Hard Rock/Heavy Metal genres are in a great deal of trouble in my honest opinion, having been overtaken by frat boys singing in tinny, high-pitched whines over grating guitars. Really, where have all the bass-baritones gone? Not that there are not tolerable and even vaguely pleasing variations on this particular "sound", but even those with the ability to "sell it" are strangely...well, dull. How does A Perfect Circle open their concerts? "ALRIGHT SEATTLE...ARE YOU READY TO FALL ASLEEP???" ...uh...hmm.

I did actually enjoy Dimmu Borgir's re-recording of Stormblast, despite its apparently being widely viewed with a jaundiced eye. Let me just say to all the corpse-painted Euro-Trash and Euro-Trash Wannabes out there: Until you learn to accept and appreciate good production, your musical genre will never be taken seriously. Period. Accept it.

I've been listening to a lot of Deicide again, which is something I haven't actually done in quite some time. I do enjoy their music, but really Mr. Benton, we get the point. You don't like xtians. Very good. I daresay you are, for the most part, preaching to the choir. Can't you pursue some other lyrical subject matter, like...oh, I don't know...the stomping upon of puppies? But I digress. I do like the man's work, and at least he makes money for belching up his own particular brand of vitriol in public spaces, whilst I, sadly, am forced to do so gratis.

...and, as this once-great Republic marches, slowly but relentlessly, toward theocracy, there is something comforting in listening to Mr. Benton's guttural rage against the Monotheistic Gestapo. A strange brand of solace, but solace nonetheless.