Archive for June, 2011

Depressalin: Chapter 5 “Take This Job and Shove It Up Your Ass”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on June 18, 2011 by synabetic

I figured this would make for a good Saturday addition. Hopefully no one is TOO offended by this one. Then again, if you’re offended, you shouldn’t be reading this at all (for your own sake… I mean, why would you read something you dislike?). For the rest of you sick, evil jerks out there: Enjoy!

See you… in HELL.” — Suicide Commando “See You in Hell

Let’s face it, the now-old saying is right: Work sucks.

I don’t mean the kinda work like this. I enjoy writing. Sure, I’m usually an unmotivated and lazy writer who may or may not blow deadlines, depending on how motivated I am at the time (read: not drunk, depressed or fighting ninjas on behalf of children everywhere), but I love putting words to a page. Or a screen. Whatever. Thing is, I severely dislike having what is known in The Industry as a “DAYJOB”.

Yeah, it’s all-caps like that.

Having a DAYJOB sucks enormous bags of dicks of all kinds of nautical worker origins. There’s no other way to put it, honestly. When I worked my DAYJOB I wanted to murder myself every second of every minute.

Of every fucking hour.

When I moved to Canada with my wife, I didn’t take any time to ponder just what would become of my life should Charon decide that I, much like a DAYJOB, suck a bag of dicks and should be kicked to the curb as she did with so many of her childhood dreams. Oh, but kick me to me to the curb she did, and there I was left on that cold curb in December wondering what the fuck I was going to do.

But Charon had some of that shit planned out, and since I needed money right away, I was forced to sign a very disagreeable Separation Agreement. Within a month I was begging her for money, because before I had completely depended on her—being a House Husband who wasn’t even allowed to have his own bank account or drive, even—and I all of a sudden had nothing.

“Get a job, Steve.” Charon had told me.

Jesus, did I ever try. Ever attempt to get work in Canada with no Canadian work history, no Canadian credit history, and sponsored immigrant status? It didn’t matter I was already a permanent resident. Nope, no one gave a fuck. I was turned down from job after job after job after fucking job. I couldn’t even get work at McDonald’s for shit’s sake. I was told all manner of limp-dick reasons why I wasn’t getting hired anywhere. But I knew why. I was too old. Too educated. Too much of this or that. Prospective employers viewed me as a risk because they knew I would quit my new job as soon as something better came along.

OF COURSE I WOULD QUIT A LAME FUCKING JOB GIVEN THE CHANCE. DO YOU WANT TO FLIP BURGERS, SERVE DRUNKS OR WORK AT BLOCKBUSTER FOR-FUCKING-EVER?!

Yes, the caps were necessary. Shut it.

Eventually… like seven months later eventually, a couple of local friends hooked me up with a job working at a consumer electronics store chain. Right away I knew, and accepted, the corporate retail monkey-slave bullshit I would have to endure. At first, I didn’t mind. I had work and thus food and rent. And just in time, too, as Charon was insisting on cutting me off the lavish $500 a month stipend she was doling out to me from the bottom of her kind heart.

That’s oozing with sarcasm, by the way. $500 was, and still is, nothing. But she made me feel bad because I was taking a part of the $90k a year she made which was put to better use supporting our children, her need to drink any pain away, and finding a new Steven.

Seriously, there was a new Steven. How messed up is THAT?

Anyhow, I was delighted to be able to spend my newfound princely earnings of around or just less than $1000 a month on hookers and blow*.

(*Food and rent. Maybe a couple comic books. But mainly food and rent.)

Working a DAYJOB for the first time in about six years was weird, admittedly. After a while, the weirdness wore off and then it just started to, well, suck.

There is a crap potpourri of reasons why a job like that sucks. Firstly, it’s a store in a mall. A fucking MALL. I’d never had the pleasure of working in a mall; a shopping destination for idiot fucktards the world over. I simply cannot fully explain in words how hellish mall-work is.

Don’t worry, I’m gonna try anyway.

Now, I understand lots of poor motherfuckers drew the short straw in life and are stuck in mall-hell; stuck in the confined Stepford Village that represents the very best of the worst of capitalism. There are, of course, the scumbags who frequent malls, bothering “sales associates” (that’s the nice term for “overworked, underpaid schlubs”) with their stupid talk of whatever it is they want to talk about. These people don’t bother me, as I have a very Bukowskian view on things, and tend to find these scumbags to be entertaining. It’s even better if they’re drunk or high on something, like PCP or glue.

And a mall in Canada? Priceless. You can’t work that kind of shit-job without becoming, or seeming to become, a little racist in your worldview, either. Natives (First Nations– what Canadians call Injuns) usually show up before closing at 9pm with small kids in tow and their teenagers who also have their own small kids in tow (and those small kids probably have kids of their very own). These teens are usually pregnant with the next batch of oddities, as well. Native groups tend to waste your time, steal shit and call you a racist when you say “Hey, stop stealing shit, please”.

Please insert the obligatory “Not all First Nations people are thieves and/or racists” here. Of course not all Natives are bad. It’s stupid to even think that. In fact, I totally dig Native American / First Nations cultures and fully support their rights to their own identity. So shut the fuck up, you armchair moralists.

The “Bad Stereotype Natives” I got to deal with at the Mall Hell Store tended to have an angle on something they wanted, and complained frequently. Always a charming bunch, and while I don’t agree with racism, I can see why the usual beer-swilling hockey-kultur white bread Canuckistani spews horrible judgement on an entire ethic line (or lines) based on those late night shoppers I had to deal with.

I could write an entire book on how First Nations people are basically the African-Americans of Canada (or Vancouver Island, at least) as far as the whole Racism Paradigm works in these parts. It’s a whole interesting frustration of living here all unto its own. Moving on…

Next up were the Asian Tourists. They shop like they allegedly drive. Slow, without reason, and typically in a rude fashion. They won’t speak English and become frustrated with you if you can’t understand their iPod or iPhone needs right off the bat.

It’s always about iPods and iPhones, too.

Arabs liked to haggle. As if they didn’t get the memo on how shit works in these parts for the last fifty years. I usually did well with them, as I didn’t think they’d blow up the store in an Allah-induced rage. In fact, I always gave them the respect I gave anyone else. But wow, did they love to haggle. And haggle they would, almost always to the point of complete, soul-twisting irritation.

There’s more to be said about other types, but it becomes boring, and, well, racist. Truthfully, most people I got in the store were nice people with normal needs and attitudes, regardless of their creed, colour or genetic make-up. The real douchebags, the real all-star cockholes are White, and they are Upper Middle Class.

You’ll notice I have a huge hard-on for upper middle class people. That’s because nearly all of them are true assholes of the highest calibre. They should be weaponized and used against… someone or something. When the alien invaders from another galaxy show up, all we have to do is throw some fucking soccer moms from the ‘burbs at them and they’ll turn right the fuck around and get the fuck home, and only after they offer some kind of chittering apology in their own language in the vain hope we won’t finally band together and shoot all those upper middle class jag-offs into space in a final desperate act of FUCK YOU to the universe.

Yeah, I know. Wishful thinking on my part.

I guess I have said hard-on for Upper Middle Class douchebags (a redundancy, I know) because I’ve seen them from both sides of the fence. They’re all the same, too. Even the ones who don’t want to be the same—and I am no exception, okay? The advent of semi-rich corporate worker bees basically controlling all the lower aspects of society is a global calamity on par with the bubonic plague, Ebola-laced AIDS, nuclear holocausts and reality television.

They are all who reside here who are not poor people. Those who fall in between are the children of the upper middle class. The poor here in Victoria rent rooms from those of the UMC who have fallen on rougher times and need to keep up payments on their new second car, which is a BMW SUV.

And they shop at the mall. All of them. The poor people I didn’t mind, and they tend to bitch about high prices on cables and mp3 players. The semi-rich ones bitch about prices, too, which boggles the mind… those prices and their ability to afford them are what set them apart from the dirty, unwashed masses who serve them their drinks, who pack their grocery bags and who sell them overpriced batteries and cables.

Cunts. All of them.

(I guess I should say “Well, not all Upper Middle Class sorts are bad. I know a very many who are kind, sweet people, etc”. But, hey, I’m on a roll; so screw it.)

What’s even better is how they come up with subtle ways to put you down while you try to work a shit job to afford high rent on sub-standard housing (which they tend to own).

It is rather heartbreaking to see a mom point at you and tell her son that if his grades continue to drop, or if he won’t listen to her sage advice, he will end up working in a mall come his mid-30s.

Hey, bitchy McBitch bitch, I don’t work there any more, but if you’re lucky maybe your son will grow up to be a famous writer and secure his retirement from the royalties he receives on all the books he wrote on being brought up by suburban assholes like you.

There’s always hope.

It’s evident I didn’t mention the true enemy of everyone: the corporate dicks who run companies like the one I worked for. Let it be said that my co-workers were, and still are, hideously wonderful people who I think only the best of. The corporate overlords, however, are a different story. I think I’ll save those musings for another Chapter.

I mean, they deserve that much.

In summation, while I hated working at the Mall Mines, I did enjoy my job enough to almost regret writing this, should I ever need that DAYJOB again. Showing up to work and doing my thing was fine. My former co-workers and bosses are fine individuals who are young, driven and awesome. But I just mentioned how cool they are. I suppose it needed mentioning again.

But did I also mention my latest former DAYJOB paid eight bucks an hour plus a little bit more for commission? Yeah. Not exactly all that awesome.

Really, I’m just universe-shattering happy I was able to move on to writing professionally full-time.

Hah! Suckers.

Depressalin: Chapter 3 “The Sounds of Music”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on June 17, 2011 by synabetic

Lookie here, it’s Chapter Three. Enjoy and such!

Do you cry in your sleep? All my failings exposed… Gets a taste in my mouth as desperation takes hold. Why is it something so good just can’t function no more?” — Joy Division “Love Will Tear Us Apart

I have a confession to make: I only recently in my life have begun to seriously appreciate Joy Division. Yeah, I’ve always kinda liked them. I read The Crow comic and saw all the quotes, but I always preferred the Cure quotes, truthfully. I loved Nine Inch Nails’ cover of Dead Souls, but I was no fan of Ian Curtis’ singing style. His lyrics? Sure. Love them. Always have… ever since I first heard Joy Division when I was much, much younger. I heard them on the radio in Germany when I was a kid and I thought “Jeepers, this guy is really sad”, having no idea he’d killed himself about five years before, in 1980. Later on down the road, I would joke about how Ian Curtis probably could have improved his vocals had he survived the hanging. But now… now I love his voice. Its haunting quality finally rings true with me. His lyrics hit even harder, and the music behind him is truly awesome. He is fucking immortal, that guy. They are immortal. As for New Order (the band that formed out of Joy Division after Curtis died), I love them, too. I own every album, much of it on vinyl. I used to rather listen to New Order than Joy Division, but now it’s the other way around more often than not.

This guy I used to work for, my dear friend Mike, “MusicWerks Mike”, told me one day while we were drinking beer together in his store that I would like Joy Division more when I was older. I was 26 at the time and I thought he was full of shit. I told him “Whatever, man. Let’s listen to New Order instead”. Now here I am, and I hear Ian Curtis in my head all the time.

Does this mean I’m going to fucking kill myself?

Nah, probably because I just muttered “Well, if you gave Curtis some vocal lessons and had him sing for early New Order then you get She Wants Revenge.”

No, not Interpol, you weenies. Though I do like me some Interpol… Just not as catchy as SWR. Sorry.

Ah, music. I love music. I don’t need to walk around with little plastic knob things in my ears for my continuous soundtrack. It’s all in my head, nestled there. Nice and cozy.

I am an electronic baby of the 80s; thus, I love electronic music. My dad got me hooked as a kid on stuff like Abba, Tangerine Dream, Kraftwerk, Village People and Blondie. When I was a wee lad, I took up playing the recorder and then saxophone. Jazz came naturally to me. But I also loved marching music and heavy metal. All of this culminated into my obsession over industrial music. Particularly Electronic Body Music, or EBM. Man, I fucking love it. The beats, the basslines, the movie samples, the distorted euro-vocals (which leads to fun, mocking terms like “ESL-BM”). After playing jazz music for years with my tenor sax, I moved on to flirting with bands and diving right into djing. Then I was booking bands, working at nightclubs, etc. It became my life in my 20s.

And I do owe quite a bit to my role-playing nerdery. See, I wanted darker, futuristic music for my Cyberpunk 2020 game sessions, so I ended up playing bands like Frontline Assembly, Skinny Puppy, Front 242 and Nine Inch Nails for my fellow nerd friends I was running said Cyberpunk games for.

You don’t know this yet, but I’m a weird crossover gamer nerd type. I don’t actually look like a dork, nor do I obviously act like one (right?). But I am one to the core. I’m probably borderline autistic, considering just how into the details of everything I get. But I’m also a charming erudite freak, too. I’ve never had a problem with “getting women” and yet I nerd out, throw dice and all that terribly nerd-freakish stuff.

I merged two of my favourite things, Music and Gaming, into one sweet, tasty pie. In the mid-90s I wanted to be cyberpunk. I wanted to look it, feel it, live it. I didn’t have the programming or hacking knowledge for a “true” cyberpunk, but I read all the literature, read the comics, played the games, listened to as much industrial music as possible, wore a lot of black and military clothing and even riveted nails into my black leather jacket. I had blue hair for a little bit, I dabbled with piercings, but most of all I was a giant throbbing dick to half the people I met.

Where the fuck am I going with all this?? (A common question I will ask you throughout Depressalin.)

Ah, yes. Liane. Because there’s always a girl involved somewhere.

Let me tell you about Liane…

She was probably the first woman I truly fell for at the tender age of 18. Granted, I had loved and lost already. I started having intimate relationships with women around 17 and I was with an older girlfriend for a while, but I think I was just really, really into the sex. So, yeah, Liane. I met her at a 24-hour coffee shop (which I eventually worked at, but that’s another story). At the time I was doing renovations and other odd jobs, using the money to go to shows in Spokane, where I lived at the time, and Seattle. I bought quite a few band shirts, albums, and other sundry merchandise items with my hard-earned money. It’s one of those shirts that led me to meeting Liane.

There she was, sitting at the coffee shop. I was wearing my KMFDM Angst shirt, having not-long-before seen the show at DV8 in Seattle. I loved that shirt. So much so, that I actually still have the ratty old thing in my closest, a physical manifestation of old memories. Liane noticed my shirt and immediately struck up a conversation with me. She had an unearthly beauty about her. Thin, blonde, blue-eyed with very pale skin. I fell in love with her within minutes. She even smelled amazing. I still recall her small. It was sweet, warm, glowing. Liane was home for the summer from a prestigious university back East and while it certainly impressed me, I was more impressed by her quick wit, gifted intellect and programming skills, her devil-may-care attitude, the fact she played violin, and, oh, yeah, her love of industrial music.

She was vastly different than the other girls I hung out with at the time. She was special. She was almost… alien. Through Liane I learned a lot about life, music and intimacy. While I don’t think Liane realised just how much I learned in that latter department, I did absorb the necessary knowledge I needed for future relationships.

Liane introduced me to a whole new world of obscure European electronic industrial bands, as well as a few American ones. Swamp Terrorists, X Marks the Pedwalk and Chemlab became lifelong musical champions of mine thanks to her. That shit really did change my life.

Alas, things weren’t to be with Liane. Our swiftly consummated relationship soon took a dive when her college boyfriend showed up unexpectedly. I even hung out with him a bit, which was pretty strange for me at the time. He was a big industrial nerd and I’ll readily admit he had some influence on me, as well. Ten years later, he would be running a record label and even came into MusicWerks, that music store I worked for, a couple of times (he lived in Portland, Oregon, which wasn’t far away). Nice guy.

He probably still hates me.

It all weighed down the relationship and things fell apart. Just in time for Liane to go back to college, actually. And there I was, broken and alone. But I quickly filled that gap with more women.

There are always more women.

Liane will always live on in my heart. I hold no grudge or petty contempt for her. She was and still is very special to me. I haven’t spoken to her since that fun summer of ’94. So long ago, but all those memories of her are still fresh.

I like to hold on to one in particular, where we screwed in my parent’s bathroom. Naughty children, indeed.

Liane was also one of the first people who I told I’d like to be a writer one day. At the time I was very rough around the edges, only dabbling here and there. Now look at me.

Boo-yah.

My love for music—industrial music, in particular—has followed me into many different relationships with a variety of lovely, and usually crazy, women. I guess it goes without saying that I also developed a terrible taste for goth girls. Initially, I didn’t pay much attention to the outlandish appearance of those sultry darkwaver gals. In short time, however, “darkwaver”, “goth” and “industrial” became pre-requisites for dating me. Later on, I would seek non-goth types, which ended up biting me in the ass because only goth-industrial types can really relate to me, my outlook and my sense of humour.

Let’s face it: Classy goth girls are HOT. Women in camouflage and big boots are HOT. There HAS to be something wrong with me, right? Because here’s the thing: They usually have severe emotional issues.

Well, let’s be fair—most PEOPLE have severe emotional issues. The budding adults of the 90s got fucked around and twisted by a culture that was too careful and too reckless all at once. The “PC” Generation twice over when you think about it. Old enough to remember rotary-dial phones but young enough to be unable to live without the internet. The book and movie Fight Club doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of just how fucking fucked up the second half of Generation X is. We are enlightened intellectuals who play dumb and try to deny just how we lie and stab each other in the back to get corporately ahead, while openly espousing integrity and honesty. We want to care and to get ahead simultaneously. But those who care don’t, and those who get ahead hate themselves for it. Or maybe they don’t and just numb themselves with episodes of Intervention (or Dexter, for the really real-people who are, you know, real). We are the eyes-wide-open but emotionally gagged tools of the Baby Boomers and their ilk. And we love it because we get to take the reigns next; armed with our Future Reward Piñatas, and all we have to fill them with are smaller and smaller iPods for the generation we get to fuck over.

Fuck over hard.

I could go on and on and on, but I should save that for later, eh?

Anywaaays and all that, I’m sure you get the point that music is very important to me. You also may get the feeling that I like saying the word “that”. Music triggers all kinds of memories and emotions for me, which can lead to all kinds mnemonic disasters. Being a club DJ for years didn’t help either, as I would tire of the same old crap people always wanted to dance to, and I would find myself cursing old stand-by Tracks of Awesome like Front 242’s “Headhunter” and Skinny Puppy’s “Worlock” having to hear them all of the time… sometimes multiple times in the same weekend. Not only did I DJ sometimes, you see, but I also worked doing bar-duties or as a doorman, which means I was at nightclubs all week long. Working in a spectacular gothic/industrial music store made things worse in a way, as I would always be exposed to new music and wanted to expose it to the club denizens whenever I could.

That’s the thing, see. People like the same old same old. They enjoy familiarity. Not just with music, but with people and interests, too. I suppose this is why I tend to date the same kind of women over and over again, wondering what the hell is wrong with me and why I seem to have this masochistic desire to find incredibly broken girls and fall in love with them. Maybe I just hate myself. Maybe I hate people on some kind of bizarre level unknown to no one but only the most astute, insane Japanese scientists.

But I don’t hate music. It is a part of me. It sings the craptastic epic that is my life. It’s my soundtrack to reality. And I feel fine.

I think.

Maybe.

Musical Madness: Painbastard “Poison For Your Soul”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on June 16, 2011 by synabetic

I kick off Depressalin with Chapter Zero, heading it with a quote from Painbastard’s track “Poison For Your Soul“. Painbastard has become one of my favorite music-acts over the last few years. “Poison For Your Soul” spoke to me and I listen to it quite often.

 

Lyrics:

(Steve Note: I just found and copied them because I’m lazy. I did a little bit of editing, but I get the feeling these lyrics aren’t 100% spot-on. Regardless, they get the point across.)

You want me want my heart and soul
Want to take me only for yourself
Hog the limelight take my time, tether me
And limit me to my essentials
Stop! This is not my life, and stop holding on to me
Try to confine me so I will break out
No! I cannot do you this favour My world is much too large
As if it could fit in your barriers

Refrain:
You say Im not good for you, and I am poison for your soul
I wound your pride And prey your sweet temper
I am so sorry I beg for forgiveness
I would rather run but I cannot hide from myself

It is better to put this idea
Right out of your mind
I dont wanna change myself
Why should I? I am what I am!
Dont waste your time with me ! We arent a good match
With every thought your time slips away!
I know it is hard for you and its also hard for me
But I dont try to stop the march of time

Refrain:
You say Im not good for you, and I am poison for your soul
I wound your pride And prey your sweet temper
I am so sorry I beg for forgiveness
I would rather run but I cannot hide from myself

HilariBad: “So You Want to Date Steve…”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on June 16, 2011 by synabetic

Around a couple months back right after the break-up with Ivy, I was drinking one night (surprise, surprise) and I wrote this little thing up. As usual, having regular content for this blog is important, or so I hear. I’ve chosen to tag asides such as you are seeing below as “HilariBad”. Also, I don’t know just how “single” I am at the moment, but this may be amusing nonetheless. You decide.

So You Want to Date Steve…

 

That’s right, ladies! Handsome and bitterly charming dreamboat Steve Saunders is newly released into the wilds of the grinding shit-show you all know and love: The Dating Scene.

Sure, you’d love a piece of that good ol’ reprobate Steve. But how do you come by him? Or on—well, nevermind. Glad you asked! Keep reading and perhaps you will glean some sort of insight into this particular form of emotional madness. Or maybe you’re continuing to read this for the intrinsic ego-laced comedy value this collection of words and punctuation no doubt contains. Whatever. It really doesn’t matter.

So, all you have to do is fill out this questionnaire. Try to answer honestly; but if you don’t it’ll be no surprise since most people lie on these things. Get ready, get set—Drink! Okay, now go!

1) Let’s kick it off with some multiple choice bullshit. You’re sitting with me at a bar somewhere (let’s see those surprise-faces!) and I decide to crack a joke. I say something and end it with “…but you know what’s NOT funny, right?”

So you respond with:

a. “The Holocaust.”
b. “Star Wars.”
c. “This isn’t going to lead to you saying something about The Holocaust, is it, Steve?”
d. “You.”
e. (Say nothing and just try to hang in there based on your good looks.)

2) Do you enjoy reading comic books? Do you refer to them as graphic novels or some kind of trite shit like that?

3) When I say “rom-com”, you say…. (Hint: it better have something to do with ROM: Spaceknight.)

4) Would you say a movie like Feast makes for an excellent or fucking awesome first date experience?

5) What the fuck is wrong with you?

6) No, really. There’s something wrong with you. Please elaborate.

7) Are you offended easily?

8 ) Do you drink booze? If so, how much? And do you live in an underground bunker with a lifetime supply of whiskey? (If you answer yes to that last bit, then please report to the nearest courthouse so we can get married immediately.)

9) It’s your birthday or Xmas coming up. How exactly are you going to guilt and subtlety manipulate me into picking up the perfect gift for you?

10) Do you smell funny?

11) Would you be embarrassed by someone who uses “donkey show” as a punchline to jokes like “why did the chicken cross the road”?

12) Can you laugh at Nazis?

13) What about man-eating unicorns dressed like Nazis?

14) Do you like current pop music? Are you really into it? (If you say yes, stop now and just leave me the fuck alone. I’ll probably break something precious in your soul anyway, so it’s best to not even try anymore. Okay? Thanks.)

15) Do you smell funny?

16) What are your “trigger words”? I need to know so I can avoid them, or, more likely, so I can get drunk and mock you with them.

17) Quick: Your mom. Did you laugh? You did? Please see above and go over “what the fuck is wrong with you?” part again. Is this a trick? Probably. I love Your Mom jokes. Or… do I?

18) Is Bruce Campbell the greatest or most awesomest actor who has ever lived?

19) Do you like kids?

20) How about kids with an Assassin Robot From The Future Soccer Mom for a mother?

21) Tell me in 100 words or less how you find Judge Dredd to be sexy.

22) Can you laugh with Nazis?

23) What about with man-eating unicorns dressed like Nazis?

24) Briefly explain how Dungeons & Dragons could cure cancer. Bonus points will be heaped upon you if you can work Warhammer and Rolemaster in there somewhere.

25) What’s your favourite undead related thing?

26) You’ve just become a Necromancer. What’s the first thing you do?

27) Are you a “I like my man to cook me a yummy dinner” kinda gal, or are you more “I like my man to drunkenly berate his computer in an orgy of blood and violence”?

28) What are your thoughts on smoking?

29) How would you feel if I said “I don’t give a fuck about how you feel about smoking”?

30) Space Dolphin vs. Ninja Toaster! Who wins and why?

31) Do you consider yourself to be a spiritual person? And do you care that I don’t give a shit about that sort of thing?

32) Do you like the idea of dating a guy who agonises over details like “just how many ways ARE there to kill someone with an axe?” as a part of his job?

33) Bacon. Thoughts?

34) So, we’ve been dating for a while and I’m out with my friends on a Friday night. What am I likely to be doing?

35) You’re watching my place while I’m out of town and you notice I have a treasure trove of rum. What do you do with it?

36) Is cannibalism REALLY all that bad?

37) What, in your mind, makes for a woman to be a “Princess”?

38) Are you a Princess?

39) How high maintenance are you? Am I always going to have to make sure my apartment is in immaculate order? Are you going to be impossible to talk to about the things bothering you? Do you need an entire lunar cycle to get ready to go anywhere?

40) Okay, let’s face facts. You probably have self-esteem or self-image issues. What are they? What do you do to deal with them? If wearing unnecessary clothing while we have sex is one of them, then you can just quit now. Wait. We can have sex, right?

41) What kind of crazy baggage would you be bringing into a relationship with me?

42) Do you like to call the shots? Or do you like to have them called for you? Or, maybe you’re more of a “let’s decide together” kinda person?

43) By now, you have noticed that I can have a rather, um, offbeat sense of humour. What are your thoughts on this?

44) If I had to sum up me in only a few words, I would say I am a “cynical idealist, meta non-conformist dreamer”. How would you describe yourself in such a manner?

45) Do you know what “Zoth Ommog” means? This is a tricky one, as it has more than one answer.

46) If we date and subsequently break up (these things go hand in hand, so it’s expected) will I have to show you how to properly lock up your Facebook so I am unable to see your posts? Truly, this is important. Some gals seem to have this issue…

47) If I have a problem, can I tell you without you telling me to shut up about it?

48) If you have a problem, do you like to talk about it, or are you more into “I don’t want to talk about it” with just about everything?

49) Can I point out (politely, of course) what’s bugging me about you? Can you take that sort of thing? Or would you throw something at me then run away sobbing?

50) Holy shit. You read all those questions? And answered them? I ask again: What is wrong with you?

Musical Madness: The Tea Party “Psychopomp”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on June 15, 2011 by synabetic

I suppose with any kind of bloggy undertaking, it’s important to have fresh content. One of the incredibly important things to me is music. I listen to it, write to it, drive to it, eat to it, shit to it and fuck to it.  Hell, I’d walk in space to it. I quote from songs often, and have tried to involve music in my life in one form or another with whatever I do.

And so, that all leads to this…

I’m going to start posting tracks I quote throughout Depressalin on a (hopefully) regular basis. I’ll even include the lyrics where I can. To kick things off, here is the song I plan to quote in its entirety at the start of the book. Naturally, I’ll be looking into the legality of that in future, but for now, please sit back, listen and enjoy.

The Tea PartyPsychopomp

Lyrics:

You wanted this
So sad to see
The sweet decay
Of ecstasy

And you want it all

And you want it all

A frozen sun,
Would guide you there
As shadows hide
The deep despair

And you want it all

I’ll give you something more
And you’ll fade away
One last kiss before
You fade away.

So sleep tonight,
In idle dreams
The pain will drown,
Your silent screams

And you want it all

And you want it all

I’ll give you something more
And you’ll fade away
One last kiss before
You fade away
Lives you once adored
will fade away
Lies you can’t ignore
You soon repay
As you fade away

As you fade away

As you fade away

As you fade away

And you’ll fade away

Steve’s Shitty Poetry Shack: Infractus Hilarus Mihi

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on June 15, 2011 by synabetic

A little while back, I announced to my Facebook fiends that I had written poetry. It had been a long time since I got all emo and decided to unleash my inner poet, and to be honest I didn’t want to show anyone. It’s not that I don’t have confidence in my writing skills (in fact, I probably have TOO much confidence), it’s just that I don’t usually want to write poetry. And when you all-of-sudden vomit poetry onto a page, wanting to show the stain of your efforts to the world is not usually the first thing on ye olde mind. I did cave to my ego and showed it to a few people and got some great feedback. The best came from my buddy Kier, a man responsible for getting me through my Darkest Days (the initial stages of the divorce). He described the poem as “sophomoric”, but also said it wasn’t bad. I’ll readily agree this piece isn’t all that awesome. But it’s me. If this Ego Engine I call a blog is supposed to be me exposing not just the nasty bits of my psyche, but every bit of me as a person, I feel I must force myself to post it. I also titled it in Latin because Latin is cool, man. And very art-house (or “art-faggy” if you grew up in the 80s). I don’t even know if I got the Latin right, as I went from memory and it’s been a loooong time since I had a Latin class.

Background on why I wrote this: I was feeling very sad– more sad than usual– and it just sort of spilled out.

Anyways, here you go. I welcome comments and stone throwing. I do wear a helmet at all times.

Infractus Hilaris Mihi

Come on darling,
Hold my hand.
I am going to take you
To the broken promised land.

Let’s walk down the path of shattered dreams,
And stroll down the blasted beaches of hope.
Let’s dance in the rain of ashes,
And kiss at the end of the rope.

We’ll throw back our heads and laugh,
As the world takes its bath.
We’ll wiggle like little worms,
As we shower in pointless wrath.

There is no place I’d rather be,
You here next to me.
But it seems you may be,
Just a little bit worried.

But hey this is Life,
This not a test.
There is no serenity in Death.
No certainty, no Rest.

Come on darling,
Don’t you cry.
Just breathe and breed.
Then we all shall die.

This is all that matters.
This is all I can offer.
A penny for your thoughts?
A penny for your coffers?

I’m unable to do any more.
Life is such a dried up whore.
It’s just me and you.
But now you say you’re through.

Please don’t go yet.
Don’t leave me here alone.
I could still have a chance.
My dice not yet thrown.

Come on darling,
Won’t you hold my hand?
Won’t you hold on to me?
Hold our fraying strands?

My stare belies my fate,
My acceptance and plight.
You have your Way,
I have my Night.

Come on darling,
Always think of me.
I am the broken land,
Of abandoned hopes and dreams.

Depressalin: Chapter 9 “Camps”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on June 15, 2011 by synabetic

Going through the chapters and posting the ones that are readable… in no particular order, or course. Hopefully there’ll be enough material for a while. The chapters are mercifully short (as chapters go); ergo there are many.

I just wanted to say “ergo” in a sentence.

For your convenience, here are the other chapters in order:
Chapter Zero “Paragon of Shit”
Chapter One “Displacement” 
Chapter Six  “Idiot Missile”
Chapter Seven “I’m Not Really a Writer”
Blog Entry: Just Ask Any Astronaut 

I think I will go back and start titling chapters that need titles (UPDATE: Done!).

Okay, here’s Chapter 9… Enjoy!
—-

Ridiculous words from ridiculous men. Accept reality! Won’t solve any problems, just fight ‘till the end. Accept reality! –Birmingham 6 “The Deadliest Beat

Accept reality, indeed.

What you’re about to read is more of a rant than a Chapter of My Life. My mother used to tell me that I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. In fact, she even called in to a local radio show one night to dedicate a song to me and said just that. I wear what I feel inside on my sleeves pretty often. The world is a hard, cruel, shitty place and I am physically pained by the injustice caused by one human being to another. It sickens me. And instead of becoming some sort of pacifistic hippie, I seethe a form of loathing from the pores of my soul every second of every day.

One time, when I was a kid, my teacher asked me if I had one wish, and only one wish, what would I wish for? Without any hesitation, my 9-year-old mouth replied, “I’d wish to tyrannically rule a mid-sized nation state. My power would be an iron fist in a steel glove. I would rule with fairness and compassion, but woe to those who cross me and what I know to be right. Should anyone cross me or intentionally harm another, I will have them executed.”

Mrs. Clouse contacted my parents soon after I said that particular gem. My folks simply told her “That’s our boy. He is who he is.”

I really haven’t changed much since then, either. I still privately weep for those more unfortunate than me. I harbor deep, deep resentment for those assholes out there who oppress others.

Yet, I’m kind of a social sadist; any true compassion for Mankind at large having burnt away from my personality years and years ago. I have had to force myself not to care due to my sensitive nature. I can’t relate to New Age peaceniks, nor can I respect war-monging freaks. I despise the rich and pity the poor—but I also don’t want to be taken advantage of by the disadvantaged. I love to help people but I’m constantly pissed off how such help given by me and others is squandered (which is why I tend to poo-poo most charities).

And this is why I can’t have nice things.

On to the rant… Perhaps you will glean something useful about me. Or maybe you will just say “Fuck you, Steve”.

I severely dislike those who refuse to accept reality. It hinders my clawing need to escape from everyone and everything.

Bastards.

I hate them all.

I am a spiteful being full of loathing and contempt, I suppose. I hide it well; as being a pain-in-the-ass dick* all the time makes people bitch and moan about me, making my life all the more difficult when all I want to do is find that magic button that says “PUSH HERE TO KILL EVERYBODY IN A SLOW AND PAINFUL MANNER” on it.

(*See what I did there? Oh, the homoerotiomedy!)

But I don’t have to find that button, do I? Nah, life itself is the button. You are born, you live, grow up, realise and understand that you are trapped in a suck-hole you still don’t want to end one day, fuck a bunch of people, fuck over a bunch more, lie about how wonderful you are, lie to yourself, make money, make babies and raise them into fucked up versions of yourself, make friends, bury said friends later on, and become old, secreting that special hormone in your brain which allows you to accept death and finally fucking die for fuck’s sake.

Or maybe you’ll be brained by thugs wandering by, looking for a good time on a Saturday night whilst shit-faced, and bleed out before weary paramedics can save your sorry, unfortunate ass.

Or maybe you’ll kiss the inside of a windshield with so much love and affection you’ll be killed instantly, the last thought on your mind being “Those were some damned fine nachos! And by Chinese people, no le—“.

Any way you slice it, you are doomed to die. Accept it. It is your destiny. Life is merely the journey to death. Then no one will care you ever existed. No one will be left to care about those left not caring in a hundred years, anyway. Unless you do something really fucking cool, of course. Or rape and kill a bunch of hookers or children. Then you’ll be remembered for a really fucking long time.

Example: The first person who comes to mind who made headlines in the mid-1920s is Fritz Haarmann, the Werewolf of Hanover. And who’s he? A sick motherfucker who was responsible for up to twenty-seven murders of young men and boys during a six year stretch. Happy-go-lucky Fritz was executed by guillotine in 1925, his last words being “I repent, but I do not fear death.”

Fuck you, Fritz Haarmann. Why the hell do I even know about your sick ass? I guess I can directly blame Rudy Ratzinger, the fellow behind :wumpscut:, one of my fave music acts. Not only did Rudy do a song called Der Totmacher (The Deadmaker – cute, eh?) about good ‘ol Fritz, but his vanity label for his music, Beton Kopf Media, uses Haarmann as its mascot.

Most people think it’s a picture of Hitler. Go figure.

And speaking of everyone’s favourite Austrian douchebag, I know way too much about Adolf Hitler. Too fucking much. And why? Am I fascinated by him and the Nazi regime? Did I watch too many History Channel specials? Well, I can’t blame the HC because I was already fascinated by Hitler at a very young age.

Growing up in Germany as a hyper-intellectual American child has a certain effect. There I was, living in a village of around 900 souls and all of the old people there were involved in World War II in some capacity or another. I mean, fuck, the American Army punched through in that very area (Aachen) and destroyed a whole bunch of shit. My next door neighbour was a man captured at Stalingrad and spent ‘till 1953 in a goddamned Soviet gulag, forced to do all kinds of depraved things to survive– including cannibalism.

Fucking wow, huh?

My young mind basically couldn’t understand why these nice old people were so fucking cruel and on the wrong side in The Best War Ever. These were old ladies who greeted me with candy when I got off the bus from school, old men who let me ride on their tractors, people who seemed so kind, accepting and generous. And yet many of them were totally cool with rounding people up in camps, hunting Jews down in the Ukraine to murder them (“Hunting the children was always easiest”) and, of course, shooting Americans.

GOTT IN HIMMEL. These people gave me candy!

Yet, I still loved them and still miss them to this very day. And here is where I can state that growing up in Germany made me an incredibly understanding-yet-cynical person. Most Americans, even ones overseas, don’t or can’t relate to anyone but other Americans. Not even other Americans in the United States… I’m willing to go as far to say they can’t relate to people who live more than a hundred miles away from them in the same damned country.

It’s not just Americans, though, right? It’s everybody. Everybody is a piece of shit who only cares for themselves. How else can they watch people starve? Not just on TV but right there on their filthy streets. Judging others like they are the Spice Controllers of Arakis, barely caring about their own family members let alone that complete stranger who lives next door.

Goddamn. I HATE YOU PEOPLE.

By the time I was ten years old, I hoped until I nearly burst for a nuclear holocaust. A plague. An alien invasion. Anything that would wipe out the disease we call Mankind. I’ll gladly go out with y’all, too. With a big smile on my cigarette-punctured face and bottle of tequila in my hands. What gives you the right to think you are better that anyone else? That you are soooo fucking special? Nothing other than some brain chemicals that evolution has blessed us with so we didn’t off ourselves in our cold, dark caves all those thousands of years before we even gave a shit about anything remotely like an iPod.

Or a wheel.

Of course… of COURSE this has been all said by all manner of people before me. “Oh, why oh why, oh Universe, are you so cruel?”

Yeah? Why do people suffer?

“Because they have to, son.”

Thanks, dad.

People love to suffer, too. They are titillated by the madness of others. Why else would we care about things like Charles Manson or Joseph Stalin? Because they made a difference? Because they mattered? Okay, well, Stalin I’ll give you. Fuck that guy, sure, but he is one of the top Murder Machines of History. Manson? He was a sign of things to come.

Shitty things.

Like Internet Culture and comic book forums. Like Lady Gaga and cute kitten videos on YouTube. Like your mom, who no doubt uses Facebook… just like me.

Humanity is a fucking wonderful and shitty disease all at once. I love to hate you, humanity; but I also hate to love you as much as I do. I’m a part of you, but I also judge you harshly as you judge me. I will live my life in Freedom, all the while wishing you were in camps.

Yes. CAMPS.

Okay, okay, they can be fun camps—but only on Tuesdays.

“This camp Steve set up is brutal and tough. What a dick. Oh, well, see you next Tuesday!”