I don’t have any idea why. But for some reason the phrase Serial Killer Nurse gives me a woody.
I don’t have any idea why. But for some reason the phrase Serial Killer Nurse gives me a woody.
Author: Karl Elvis
So many blogs, so little time
It seems the more I wander around the blogosphere the more I add to the list of blogs I like and want to follow. And of course I can’t even begin to keep up.
It seems the more I wander around the blogosphere the more I add to the list of blogs I like and want to follow. And of course I can’t even begin to keep up.
Incredible? Pretty much.
I just took my kids to see The Incredibles. And yeah, it’s pretty incredible.
I just took my kids to see The Incredibles. And yeah, it’s pretty incredible.
Turds and Treasure
Trying to take this all in I’ve got one, two, three, four, five Senses working overtime Trying to tell the difference ‘tween the goods and grime Turds and treasure And there’s one, two, three, four, five Senses working overtime –XTC, ‘Senses Working Overtime’ Turds and Treasure. That’s the phrase that’s been kicking in my head […]
Trying to take this all in
I’ve got one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
Trying to tell the difference
‘tween the goods and grime
Turds and treasure
And there’s one, two, three, four, five
Senses working overtime
–XTC, ‘Senses Working Overtime’
Turds and Treasure. That’s the phrase that’s been kicking in my head since I dug into someone’s collection of Prog Rock nuggets here.
I assume we’ve all done it. Pulled out some music, (or even something other than music but let’s limit it for now) that we once liked, and listened with excitement and trepidation. Will it still be good? Will it still have what it had? Will I like it anyway?
Motivation, lack thereof
Damn. I keep trying to write something. Any damned thing. After last week’s flurry of passion and anger, I just can’t seem to find it. I have entries started – one on books I’m reading or have recently read, one on halloween and how it’s changed since I was a kid, and another goofing on […]
Damn.
I keep trying to write something. Any damned thing. After last week’s flurry of passion and anger, I just can’t seem to find it.
I have entries started – one on books I’m reading or have recently read, one on halloween and how it’s changed since I was a kid, and another goofing on the stupid “self-review” process corporations put us through in the yearly performance review cycle. I even have one in the back of my skull about prog rock, about going back to find the turds-and-treasure of music I used to listen to.
I can’t seem to get through any of them though.
I only seem to be motivated by two things right now; anger, and sex. I’m tired of writing angry tirades about politics, I’m already bored with that until I can figure a target. And while I can, in theory, re-direct anger into sex, I can’t seem to get motivated by writing it. I don’t want to talk about sex right now, I just want to have it.
I can easily visualize the things I’d like to be doing. The spankings I could be giving, the ass-pounding sweat-soaked fucking I could be giving someone. The bites and scratches I’d like to get and give. The permanent marks I’d like to leave behind.
Yeah, that wakes me from my stupor. But I try to write it down, describe it, and… It’s gone. Not the wants and desires and passions, those are so very still here. But any desire to write it goes away, I’m non-verbal and just thinking through red haze.
It’s a bit frustrating. There’s good stuff in my head, I could be doing something creative. The cloud of love and rage and sex and violence could yield something interesting. But all I can find is a loud buzzing and grinding noise and no words.
I need to find something to do with this energy. It’s a dark scary sort of energy. I need to make it useful.
Kartoon Elvis
Cartoon Me: Thanks to Dani for that image. If you want to contact her, let me know and I’ll hook a bruddah up.
Cartoon Me:
Thanks to Dani for that image. If you want to contact her, let me know and I’ll hook a bruddah up.
Prog!
Your future is managed And your freedom’s a joke You don’t know the difference As you put on the yoke The less that you know The more you fall into place A cog in the wheel There is no soul in your face Oh, lord. I just found a shared music folder (iTunes has this […]
Your future is managed
And your freedom’s a joke
You don’t know the difference
As you put on the yoke
The less that you know
The more you fall into place
A cog in the wheel
There is no soul in your face
Oh, lord. I just found a shared music folder (iTunes has this cool ability to share music on a local network, so I get my co-workers iTunes libraries if they turn this on) with a vast library of seventies prog-rock.
Sometimes you just find the thing you need to improve your mood.
I’m delightedly listening to fucking Kansas as I write my yearly self-review. More on that stupidity in a minute, or possibly another entry. But — Kansas. One of the great stupid prog bands of all time. Great players, christian message that we all missed when we were all teenagers (Or we would not have listened to them). Dumb, dumb lyrics. The kind of band all the boys loved, and all our girlfriends hated. I can’t remember how many times I sat in the family room doing endless bong hits and playing Kansas as loud as our stereo could go.
Do they suck? I can’t honestly tell anymore. I know I bought Lefoverture recently and hated it, but now, listening to Masque and Point of Know Return, I feel nothing but glee. The cheesey organ, the dual lead guitars, rock fiddle, Phil Ehart’s under-rated drumming (He was one of the best drummers on the genre, and I never hear his name anymore). God, I loved this band. I can’t evaluate it any more, too much nostalgia value.
I can’t wait to see what else is in this cat’s library. All sorts of bands I used to love but have not listened to in decades. I have a feeling I’ll be posting more about stupid Prog bands I loved.
Taco Flavored Kisses
I’ll fill all your wishes with my taco flavored kisses! South Park viewers will know where that comes from. You ever encounter a food item that you just think, this is fucking wrong? Kraft “Mexican Style Taco Cheese.” Yeah, it’s cheese. That tastes like tacos. Ewww?
I’ll fill all your wishes
with my taco flavored kisses!
South Park viewers will know where that comes from.
You ever encounter a food item that you just think, this is fucking wrong?
Kraft “Mexican Style Taco Cheese.”
Yeah, it’s cheese. That tastes like tacos.
Ewww?
Far Far Away
The sort of day when I don’t to be here. Not any specific here. Here work, here home, here the simple boring mundanities of real life. I’m picturing a sailboat. A tropical sea, sky. Wind and sun and freedom. Rum. Fruit and fish. No clothes. No people. Two of us. Three of us. Whatever. Tan […]
The sort of day when I don’t to be here.
Not any specific here. Here work, here home, here the simple boring mundanities of real life.
I’m picturing a sailboat. A tropical sea, sky. Wind and sun and freedom. Rum. Fruit and fish.
No clothes. No people.
Two of us. Three of us. Whatever. Tan and sweaty, smelling of the sea and the sun, coconut and lime. Smelling of each other.
Water and sun and the breeze. Sound of tropical foliage. Flowers. Birds.
There. I want to be there. Anywhere.
I want to sail a boat with nowhere to go. Watch a beautiful girl sleep in the sun. Make love in the sea. Sleep and live with a rocking that leaves me feeling wrong when I step on dry land.
Nut brown; clothes feeling wrong, when they’re needed. Nothing that needs a plug or a cord, nothing with a screen, nothing with a keyboard.
Where am I? Why would I care.
When will I come back?
There would be no back; only here, now. Smell, taste, touch.
I shall sit and draw a map that leads to nowhere. X marks any spot. Close your eyes, drive a dagger in, that is where we shall sail.
I can smell the rum already.
Season’s Pornographic Greetings, and Maybe a Job
So I turn out a Bad Santa story and next thing I know, everyone’s doing it.
No, you have to wait. But the one I saw a draft of today (by one of my blog-buddies) pretty much smoked mine.
- [EDIT] – that story’s up.
- . And it kicks serious ass. It’s funny as hell.
Funny where inspiration strikes. If you go read Man With The Bag, by the way, let me know. If you like it, or even if you hate it, let me know.
But I’m figuring I’m on a roll and should start writing something else. I don’t know what. I don’t know if it’s going to be erotica (for which I’m already getting more requests – I love you ladies), or if it’s going to be more mainstream, or if I’m done for the year. Hell if I know. It’s that fickle muse problem.
In other news, I’m trying to decide if I should switch jobs at work.
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