And I Hope that you Die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead

My Awesome Boss:
Boss: Hey Gabriel, I'm gay. You know that, right?
(Grabs my forearm and rubs it, presumably in what he considers to be a gay way)
Gabriel: Oh, yeah?
Boss: Ahh just kidding. Nothing like a nice papaya in front of your face.

O Pioneers!!! / Saw Wheel split CD
How awful it must be to always be compared to that Against Me! band. Unfortunately for them, the comparison will follow them around for years, and not without reason (the exclamation marks at the end of their name doesn’t help). O Pioneers!!! is a band made up of two members: guitarist-vocalist Eric Solomon and drummer Jeff Johnson. Together, they play jangly, scream-laden punk rock that fits comfortably into that bourgeoning punk rock craze ‘folk-punk.’ Except for the monotony of the shouted vocals, the music is high-spirited and fun with plenty of shout-alongs.

Saw Wheel also fall under the umbrella called ‘folk-punk,’ only with an entirely different sound. Saw Wheel is singer-songwriter R.J. Cresswell “and friends.” On this particular album his friends are guitarist Richard Crenweldge and bassist Justin Smith. Cresswell’s side of the record bleeds Americana the way that Avail, Rumbleseat or Hot Water Music would—sometimes sincerely, sometimes sarcastically. Saw Wheel uses a more conventional approach to folk music, often accompanied by tambourines or a second acoustic guitar. His lyrics invoke images of rattlesnakes and plastic Jesus statues on the dashboards of what could only be old Chevy pick-up trucks. Using wit and sarcasm, Cresswell warns other countries not to “tread on U.S.” or they will “surely die.”
Layout and CD illustrated by uber-talented punk rock fixture Christy Road. (Team Science)

Consular 7inch ep
Consular are a heavy, heavy band. Loud and slow, they chosen to take the Sabbathy road trailblazed by bands like Cavity and Sleep. On their debut 7", Consular have proven their ability to pull off sludgy, repetetive riffage like pros. The songs don't vary very much, mostly the listener is slowly forced into a depressive funk (and this is a good thing) while the monumental riffs and feedback move forward at a creeping pace and the singer screams maniacally.
Just try to imagine smoking weed out of a hollowed out skull. I'd love to see what they do when they get the opportunity to play with a full length's amount of space. (Fatal Apathy)

Fun Home
I've just fished reading Fun Home - A Family Tragicomic , by Dykes to Watch Out For cartoonist Alison Bechdel and it has to have been my most literary graphic novel experience yet, as she references and even echoes Proust, Hemingway, Joyce, and even Homer throughout her memoir while telling the story of growing up with her father, a closeted gay man who may or may not have killed himself as a result of his secret. It's a solid book, its tale told in a non-linear fashion with various anectdotes scatterered throughout like a completely serious version of Family Guy. The art is lovely, drawn in black and white with different shades of grey and blue water-colored in.

Wordy as hell, but I loved it.

Was it everything I needed it to be? In a word- Yes. Brandon Routh's spot on impersonation of Clark-Kent-by-way-of-Christopher-Reeve was almost eerie. Kevin Spacey, as usual, is unfuckwithable. He could do anything. There were a lot of moments of levity in Superman Returns and each of them was handled perfectly. I can't wait to see what Bryan Singer does with his upcoming Harvey Milk biopic.

Coming back to Miami after being at Bonnaroo for 4 days is mighty depressing.
As usual, I'm killing time before leaving for the gym.
Last Wednesday I spent the night at a friend's place in Atlanta. This guy is looking good. I mean, he was a pretty chunky dude when we were in highschool, but now he's all protein shakes and gym visits. Generally speaking situations like this make me feel bad, as if I'd turned out worse than this guy somehow. Sometimes I find old friends of mine on the internet and read their blogs or whatever and find out that they're married Chicago art critics. It's downright depressing.
Not this time, though. This time was different in that seeing my ATL friend (who is fit and owns his own home) is serving as something of an inspiration. He's actually been online with me lately, giving me workout tips and everything.
It's a great thing to have nice, supportive friends.

How has it become so hard to get to the gym? I have all the time I need in the morning to get there, and yet somehow it's becoming increasingly difficult. I used to go almost every day, but I haven't been in a month. I'm in my gym clothes once again, convinced that I'm going, but I'm sitting here, at the computer instead. I've done this four or five times now. I need to stand up in the next ten seconds if I want to get anything done.

Yes, Mel Gibson is funny.

I am 135 pages into The Da Vinci Code, a book that reads as if it were written for people who spent hundreds of hours chasing Carmen Sandiego on their Apple IIes and were raised on Hardy Boys mysteries and young adult novels about 13 year olds carrying spellbound daggers that lead them to their egyptian twin brothers, who just happen to be enchanted, well-meaning mummies.

I am one of those people. I recognize the silliness in it, and I love every page of it.

Frankly, I expected this disc to be bullshit. Not so much a retrospective as it is an analysis of their break up, Refused are Fucking Dead is a loving piece of hardcore history that doesn't suffer from over-reliance on live footage, band pranks, or any of the usual trappings of band documentaries. The documentary itself is about 40 minutes long, and the extras include both of their videos and a few live cuts that were thankfully left out of the documentary itself. I haven't been this ecstatic about a purchase in a very long time. Beware those who would call this "artsy," because of it's chello based score and it's complete lack of laughs, for they are lame.

Actually,

things have changed, somewhat.
Partially, it's this crazy diet that she and I are doing. Instead of hitting the snack machine, I'm eating prunes (yes, prunes) and smoked almonds at work. Also, after reading a particularly effective essay on what I'll call 'America's Additude Problem' and a good shrink visit, I've decided that I need to retool how I feel about this job. Yes, it's a hassle and yes, I have to speak to Serbian people about (really) faulty satellite equipment that has been sold to them by a company that is, in essence, ripping them off, but the hours are good. The pay is good. The benefits are good, and there's always overtime available to me when I need it. While I may be further sacrificing my dignity every day that I work here, I'm also allowed to come in late every day and call in sick whenever I need to.
Life is fine. I live in a great apartment with two great women and three cats. We eat well and watch Netflix movies and television. It's all I require.

Also, the game XIII rules.

My feet stink so bad. I'm working today, at Globecast. I just took off my shoes, and my feet are stinking everything up. Working here makes me want to hurt myself. I just had a Butterfinger. Ten minutes from now, a cigarette.

I can't wait until I start sneaking in liquor.