Metal, Misery and Mayhem

2011 Revelations

2011-12-31T17:01:00.012-06:00

Last year was an exercise in rediscovery of myself. I forged ahead with a new job and a new musical endeavor, wading into unfamiliar but exciting waters which nourished and completed me.

2011 was an interesting compliment to 2010, although mostly unblogged. Rediscovery gave way to revelation this year, a revelation rather dark and unexpected. I finished last year relatively refreshed after having been off work for a while due to my jaw surgery, and was looking forward to hitting 2011 with verve. Didn't happen. Very quickly, I grew tired again, unreplenished by sleep, dragging, leaden. Fed up, I began a systematic medical process of elimination to get to the bottom of this fatigue.

One of the consistent themes throughout my life, since I was about 16-17 years old, is being tired. I remember being 17 and struggling to walk up the hill to my house at 1pm on a Sunday afternoon because fatigue was on me like an elephant. I remember being 25 and drooping at my desk at 3pm, despite eating a relatively healthy diet and working out nearly every day. I remember being 31, walking down the hall at work, and thinking, "Jesus fucking christ, is this how it's going to be FOREVER? Will there ever be a day when I'm not so bloody, deathly tired?"

This isn't "I stayed up too late last night" tired. It's not "I eat a shitty diet" tired. It's not "I'm stressed" tired, or "I'm depressed" tired, or "I exercised a lot yesterday" tired or "I played a show last night" tired.

This is "each of my limbs is moored with a five pound weight and I could sleep for a month and it wouldn't do a goddamn thing" tired.

I've reduced stress, meditated, been mindful, gotten more sleep, gotten better sleep, eaten more protein, eaten more vegetables, eaten more organic food, exercised, stopped coffee, been more true to myself and guess what? Nothing works. I'm tired when I take care of myself, tired when I don't.

Daily I hear stories of friends bouncing out of bed, ready to take on the world. I have about one of those days a month. If I'm lucky, I get three or four in a row. The rest of the time is a gray drag I steadfastly ignore, forcing this leaden carcass of mine to live life. You may read this and be puzzled, as you probably know me as the ball of energy on stage or the person who hauls ass down the hall at work and is eternally frustrated by people who are slow. I hide it. At shows, the fatigue is pushed back for the performance and a few hours after, at work it disappears in bursts and returns as fast as it left.

Long and short is this year I decided I was sick of it and marched myself off to the endocrinologist to find an ANSWER.

Probably thyroid, I pre-diagnosed. That would be a tidy explanation of the fatigue, poor sleep, poor concentration, sporadic hair loss, weird dry-oily skin and inconstant vision. But no, levels were normal. A small dose of synthroid proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that I did not need MORE thyroid hormone. Horrors, that overclocked, strangling, heart racing day.

Ok then, I'm not 20 any more so maybe the dreaded peri-menopause? Nope, levels for that were normal too. Pituitary tumor? Nope (and glad for that). Polycystic ovarian syndrome? Not that either (the doc really thought he had it nailed on that one, but I knew he was wrong).

What else? Grasping at straws, the endo ran the umpteenth blood test, this time for rheumatological factors and got a weak positive rheumatoid arthritis (ANA antibody) titer. Well, that sucks. I know several people who suffer from RA; it's a horrible, painful disease which I do not have the time for. I'm just getting good at guitar - I don't need my hands taken away from me!

The rheumatologist sent me packing to the lab with another blood test slip. I didn't think much of it, to be honest - after so many inconclusive blood tests, you stop getting your hopes up after a point.

And then I got my answer. THE ANSWER.

I tested positive for something called SS-A antibodies. Coupled with my overflowing cornucopia of lifelong symptoms, the rheum confidently diagnosed me with something called undifferentiated connective tissue disease, or UCTD.

Suddenly, every symptom I've ever had in my life made sense: a dreadful downward glissando focus pull horror movie sense that struck me with deep, numbing fear.

• In my teens: the incapacitating chest pains I used to get when exercising; take a breath and go to your knees to start getting right with the afterlife, because pain this bad can't possibly be anything other than fatal. The bizarre blistering rash I got for a few summers when exposed to the sun. The sudden-onset wave of crushing tiredness followed by body-wide warm, weak, stiff joints for several weeks afterward. The easy-to-dislocate shoulders and clicky knees. The endless, gigantic canker sores. The endometriosis and other delightful female problems.

• As a young adult: Get rid of the rash and chest pains, keep the endometriosis, weak joints and fatigue. Add exercise depleting rather than energizing me. Add generally poorly behaved lungs, particularly with upper respiratory infections.

• As a mature adult: Keep all of the above and add: the randomly swollen finger or toe or shoulder or knee with no radiological presentation. Sporadic hair loss. A bizarre stupefaction that steals my intelligence, where I can't confidently remember your name even though I've been your friend for years. Random burning/crushing chest pains. Undeniable asthma. Revisit the crushing fatigue and whole body agony. You're not supposed to be able to feel the joints in your sacrum burning like red hot rivers of lava. That was me at MDF this year. Gastrointestinal symptoms: to go or not to go or to not be able to stop going, that is the question.

As it sank in, I realized I never really wanted this day of revelation to come. It was easier to think of the symptoms as separate and individual, like the cells of The Thing, each its own microcosm of annoyance but for the most part, unconnected. Added together, this was a heavy weight. This was the sound that starts the first Deicide album. My immune system is eating my body. It has been, on and off, for the last 25 years. The toxins released into my bloodstream from my eternal inflammation is what is making me tired. No wonder. No wonder at all.

And it's never going to go away.

I grew up in the rural pastures of Western New York, playing in the creeks and streams and culverts. Seems healthy, until you think of all the farms around our property. All that fertilizer run off. All those chemicals and petroleum byproducts leaching from the highway cut into the northern slope of the aquifer feeding the well from which we drank and washed. And the creeks and streams in which I played for endless hours? Lined by summer houses with septic tanks and leach fields and in some cases, pipes dumping raw sewage straight into the water. The great, black rotting hulk of Bethlehem Steel was a mere 10 miles away; we couldn't smell the sulfurous reek of it at our house but now that I think of it, the breeze must have blown that particulate to us. Add in the cheap, overprocessed welfare diet on which I subsisted. My parents smoking four packs of cigarettes a day plus our wood burning stove belching black smoke into the house for me to breathe. My mother with her leukemia. So many female relatives acquaintances with strange cancers and fibromylagia. Let's not forget Love Canal. Oh yeah, then go to school for art and spend four years covered in various kinds of ink, oil paint, paint thinner, rubber cement and Duco glue just down the road from the deadly Eastman Kodak plant.

I'll say it again: It's really no wonder at all.

I spent a lot of this year being alternately sad and angry about this diagnosis. FML and all that.

Wasted time.

So what's the wrap up, the good news? I've made it 25 years staying undifferentiated. My last blood test was negative for SS-A antibodies. I may never fully present with lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, Sjögren's syndrome or scleroderma. I don't even have enough consistent symptoms to warrant going on Plaquenil treatment. Even on my most tired days, I can still get up and go to work, still find the energy to smile and run through a few scales on the guitar. At worst, it gives me some darned good material for song lyrics.

If you've been tired all your life and the doctors can't find anything wrong and are staring to look at you sidelong while writing "psychosomatic illness" in your chart, do yourself a favor and get a rheumatoid factor blood test. You might just find out something you didn't really want to know that helps your life make sense. And in that knowing, you can understand some of the whys and the whats, and then just get on with living.

That's what I'm going to do, UCTD be damned.

Best wishes to you all in 2012 and keep checking back for news about Morgengrau, Hod, Drifter!

2011 Shows

2011-12-30T11:36:00.002-06:00

This year was a bit slower in regards to shows... 27 in total with three of those being multi-day fests. The good thing about 2011 is I went from having one band in January (Drifter) to three in December (Drifter, Morgengrau and Hod). It's been a great year for writing new music and buying a fuck-ton of gear. The momentum continues into the new year with Hod hopping a plane to bring hell to the masses at The Gathering of the Bestial Legion V fest in Los Angeles on 14 January. Morgengrau kicks off my 40th year on this rock at Zombies in San Antonio on 25 February. Morgengrau will also be going into the studio in March to record our first album and Hod will be finishing up "Book of the Worm" for a 2012 release. Drifter will be lazy and play a few shows but mostly we'll sit around in our jam room, talk about gear and tease each other. Metal excitment abounds!

5 Feb - Legion, Birth A.D., Blood of Patriots, Pasadena Napalm Division at Emos, Austin TX
13 Feb - Peversum, Birth A.D., Rigor Mortis at Headhunters, Austin TX
26 Feb - Immortal and Absu and enough King Diamond on the PA to give you PSTD, at Backstage Live, San Antonio TX
3 Mar - Sad Wings, Chronolung at Stubbs, Austin, TX
12 Mar - Belphegor, Gigan, Blackguard, Neuraxis at The Rail Club, Ft Worth TX
3 Apr - Melechesh, Rotting Christ, Hate at The Rail Club, Ft Worth TX
4 Apr - Melechesh, Rotting Christ, Hate at Emos, Austin TX
9 Apr - Disfigured, Scattered Remains at Headhunters, Austin TX
16 Apr - Exhorder, Rigor Mortis, Hod at Emos in Austin TX
13 May - Birth A.D. and Killa Maul at Red Eyed Fly, Austin TX
17 May - Birth A.D., Hod, Warbeast, Heathen at Backstage Live, San Antonio TX
20 May - Evil United Record Release Party at Encore Records, Austin TX
27 - 29 May - Maryland Death Fest: Highlights were Hail of Bullets, Dead Congregation, Nuclear Assault, Skinless, Marduk, Aura Noir, Impaled Nazarene
3 June - Somniferum, Humut Tabal, Plutonium Shore, Spectral Manifest, Vesperian Sorrow, at Zombies, San Antonio TX
25 June - Killa Maul, Capricorn USA, MOD at The Dirty Dog, Austin TX
1 July - Morgengrau's first show, Apocalytpic Horror, 443, Kinfolk, Eviscerated at The Korova Basement, San Antonio TX
?? August - Warbeast, Legion, Hexlust at The Dirty Dog, Austin TX
16 Sept - Drifter, Sad Wings at Red Eyed Fly, Austin, TX
7 Oct - Aggravator, Morgengrau, Hexlust, Birth AD, Whore of Bethlehem at Headhunters Austin TX
8 Oct - My first shows with Hod! Two in one night: Hod at La Gloria Cultural Fest, San Antonio and Hod, Emperial Massacre, Plutonian Shore at Zombies, San Antonio TX
22 Oct - Humut Tabal and Absu at Bonds 007, San Antonio TX
25 Oct - Immolation, Jungle Rot, Engaged in Mutilating, Emperial Massacre at Backstage Live, San Antonio TX
29 Oct - Drifter at Clicks Live, San Antonio TX
4 Nov - Watain, The Devils Blood, Malign at Munchenbryggeriet, Stockholm, Sweden
6 Nov - Gorgoroth, Vader, Valkyria at Klubben, Stockholm, Sweden
18 - 19 Nov - Goregrowler's Ball, San Antonio TX: Highlights: Hirax, Goatwhore, Hod, Funerus, Cardiac Arrest, Birth A.D., Plutonian Shore, Emperial Massacre
8-11 Dec - Rites of Darkness Fest, San Antonio TX: Highlights: Demigod, Antaeus, Adorior, Cyanide, Weapon, Midnight, Blaspherian, Cruciamentum, Mitochondrion

Satisfaction

2011-10-14T21:24:00.005-05:00

A clip from Morgengrau's second show on 7 October 2011, Headhunters Club, Austin, Texas

... and now also playing with Texas black-death-thrashers Hod - my much dreaded San Antonio double header debut night: Show #1 at the La Gloria Comtemporary Art Festival (yes, bizarre) and Show #2 at Zombies Club, San Antonio, Texas.

(click for larger photo)

Summer has been busy! Work has been nuts, my health management is nearly a full time job, and then somewhere I got it in my head that I had time/energy to join a third band. When offered the opportunity in Hod, I did not hesitate; life is too uncertain to worry about "How will I make it work?" Just engage and commit, and it will happen. Worrying is for pussies.

Expect to see me onstage A LOT in 2012.

Extrinsic Pathway

2011-07-04T13:31:00.004-05:00

Morgengrau's debut show at The Korova basement, San Antonio. Part one of the Brutality in the Basement series, put on by Goregrowler Entertainment.

I could write a long blog about my feelings around this moment, which heralds a new era in my musical career, but for now I'll keep it simple:

I am honored to have bandmates (Nick, Reba and Prokingku) who believe and trust in this idea enough to invest their time and resources in Morgengrau. Thank you dearly, my friends.

I am grateful that metal still lives and breathes in the young and not-as-young... thank you to everyone who helped put on the show and came out to support.

Lastly, thanks to my mother, for telling me over and over that playing guitar was a waste of time which would never amount to anything. Without that condescending judgment driven by fear and ignorance, I would not be fueled with a red, burning hatred of proving her wrong, over and over, for the rest of my life.

We walk the Extrinsic Pathway.

Magickan and a Drone

2011-06-05T19:32:00.004-05:00

Lesson from Moloch of Melechesh, April 2011.

Moloch's guitar in action same night.

Moments with true creators of magick are precious and few. This was a great honor for me.

Numb

2011-03-18T21:23:00.005-05:00

About midway through the day, I felt it; a prickling tiny pain in the ball of my foot. Again?

Lately, I've had a problem with hairs puncturing the skin of my feet. First was in Sweden; a friend's dog was the culprit. The result was a limping trot through the park with friends; my expression that of smiling, frozen agony. The next time, I thought my new clogs had scratched my foot but instead, a 3/4" hair had embedded itself in the shape of a horseshoe on the top of my instep. The other day I couldn't get to a bathroom fast enough to rip off my sock, expecting to find a roofing nail protruding from my sole. Nope, just an eyelash, less than a 1/4" inch long, with maybe 1/16" penetrating my skin.

When I worked for the Shriner's Hospital in Boston, I had the opportunity to read many a medical journal. My favorite was The Journal of Trauma. One unforgettable article dealt with the amputation of an elderly woman's foot. Her Achilles tendon was irrepairabably damaged by embedded dog hairs. DOG hairs. Apparently, her habit was to sit in her easy chair and rub her wire-haired terrier with the back of her ankle. Over the years, thousands of hairs worked their way into the tissue, eventually causing the tendon to ulcerate and ultimately resulting in the loss of her foot.

How, I asked myself then as I still do now, had that old woman stood the pain? One hair in my foot and I'm limping like Quasimodo. This woman had thousands.

This got me to thinking about numbness.

The more schooled of you will be tempted to mention diabetic circulation issues and peripheral numbness, but humor me, please. What if she just ignored the pain, like so many other people do? What if she just wrote it off as "I'm getting old and my ankle hurts" instead of applying a little brain to analyze the situation?

Numbness has become an epidemic.

Bodies: Folks with teeth broken off at the gumline are smoking and drinking like no tomorrow. I thought breaking teeth was a torture method... perhaps these folks can only tell the truth? Dude in the supermarket topping 400 pounds struggles to push his cart loaded with eggs, whole milk, and chorizo. That black spot on your forehead that was the size of a dime last month and is now the size of a quarter? Just put cover up on it. My own mother walked around for two weeks feeling like she had a brick on her chest - she was having a heart attack the entire time but just ignored it. I just can't breathe, that's all. Nothing big. Just an elephant sitting on my sternum.

Noise: A tube TV left on will drive me slowly insane but a mariachi band blasting at full volume doesn't stop the family who hired them from talking or wake their sleeping baby. Somebody honks their car horn and I'm still crawling back into my skin ten minutes later; my neighbors passively let their chihuahuas bark at top volume for hours inside their house (I can hear those little fuckers from inside mine). A woman pushes a shopping cart with a red-faced toddler braying 120 dB five inches from her face; I have to put in earplugs in order to concentrate because of the work site radio being played from a quarter mile away.

The World: All four of your car tires are almost flat and with two little kids in the back seat, you probably don't have two pennies to rub together, yet there you are, ruining your tires, wasting gas and endangering your kids. Two million gallons of oil spew into the Gulf but you shrug, tucking into that shrimp dinner. Never mind that it tastes just a little bit funny. China infuses everything they make with melamine but god help me if I get in your way when you're heading to Wal-Mart. Your dog's had that sore in his ear for three or four months but it's not getting worse, so why take him to the vet? That rotting patch on the roof of your house? Oh, it was like that when we bought it. And by the way honey, I forgot to pay the homeowner's insurance last month because we didn't have enough in the bank account. I know there's a storm rolling in. Don't worry about it.

Me? I can tell my blood sugar level from the way my thoughts flow. At night, when all is still and dark, I can feel the arthritis in my toes, red osteo-wasps layering their nest of bone over my joints. I've felt the ventricles of my heart torque from my mitral value prolapse and have gritted my teeth against the cold steel aria of the pins and plate in my pelvis. Right now, I can feel the bone in my jaw going through a final post-surgery growth spurt; it's an itch, a blazing spark of cell division as my body relentlessly repairs itself.

I'm not complaining. I'm just aware. Really, really aware.

Daily, I resist screaming: "Look what you're doing! Your kids are fat, you're taking the elevator and teaching them to be lazy, you're too dumb to know that sign shouldn't have an apostrophe, and you'd never notice that show on TV about alligators is interspersing footage of Nile crocodiles just to make the action more entertaining. What's in your head? What are you thinking? Are you thinking? Is anything going on in there at all?"

My point is: Open your eyes! Live IN the world. Live IN your body. Look and actually SEE. Turn that TV off (they're mixing Shermans in that show about Panther tanks now), put down that chicken pot pie and listen to silence for 10 minutes. Okay, 2 minutes. What does your heart sound like? Are you tired? Are you sad, angry or happy? Can you really afford that flat screen TV? When was the last time you actually had a conversation with your kids that extended past "When do you have soccer practice?"

Don't be a ghost drifting through your life. Don't wait until later.

Be present: Feel all the pain, all the fear, all the joy.

Be awake: See the beauty, the mundanity, the terrible ugliness.

Be integrated: Reality and dreams can co-exist.

Be alive.

Necromance vs. Willpower

2011-03-13T23:08:00.007-05:00

Headed up to Forth Worth yesterday to see Gigan, Neuraxis, Blackguard and Belphegor at The Rail Club. I really enjoy going to shows in Fort Worth. Sadly, the massive Ridglea Theatre is struggling to rediscover its identity after being turned into a country bar. Rumor has it there will be another go as a metal club, but I find it unlikely. In the meantime, the Rail Club is filling the gap well.

The 2009 San Antonio Scout Bar Drinking Disaster was fresh in my mind as I drove up IH-35. We'd hung out with Belphegor after their set on the Exodus/Kreator tour. Helmuth, peer-pressure master, used his well honed skills to get me to drink. Faithful readers of this blog know I don't generally imbibe. Helmuth got me to do three whiskey and two vodka shots with him. In an hour. You can imagine the results. I could have said no... but when Helmuth wants something to happen, he will repeat the same phrase every 5-10 seconds until you give in just to get him to leave you alone.

I promised myself I'd never get drunk like that again, since drunk can't be turned off like an annoying light. Alone I knew I'd not be able to resist, therefore I brought along Morgengrau bassist Prokingu and another good friend to sacrifice their livers for me.

We got to the Rail in the early evening, a nondescript facility in a spare, commercial district. A few quick circuits of the building proved Belphegor was nowhere to be found, so off we went for some sushi at Sushi Yoko.

After stuffing our faces, we rolled back to the Rail and began bus stakeout. We had a liquid gift to deliver to the master of necromance. As the first local opener trudged through some anonymous riffs, we finally got word that the man himself was in the club, shooting pool. A frenzied attempt to get in without paying resulted. IDs were left at the door, the club hustled through and all of us wondered how someone as big as Helmuth could appear and disappear so quickly. We knocked on the bus door for a third time, cringing, as we all hate being "those people" who won't leave the fucking bus door alone. Instead of the poor confused roadie who'd patiently spoken to us the two times before, Helmuth's wary face poked out. His closed expression changed to friendly then quite happy once we handed him the bottle we'd been trucking around in its "you're not fooling anyone" paper bag.

Helmuth (to me): "So. You are drinking?"
Me: "No, I'm driving."
Helmuth: "Okay."
Me: "Yep."
Helmuth: "So you want a beer?"

Game on.

After 30 minutes of socializing, Helmuth announced he needed to "train and then take a fucking nap." We headed inside just in time to catch most of Gigan's set. I have to admit, I don't get music like Gigan's. Stop-starts, arpeggios, complex forms and a theremin had me standing in the back of the club feeling as I had while watching Atheist in 2009. This is how metal sounds to everybody's grandmother - arhymthic, clangy, impossible to decode. I did my best to appreciate the effort being expended. They sure were working hard. The singer screamed and gesticulated. The bassist, his strap entombed to his instrument with clear tape, played complicated runs. The guitarist's beautiful flame top BC Rich chunked and wanged and wailed. The theremin screamed. The drummer blurted out 32nd notes on the kicks like a baby with the runs. I just couldn't get into the music because I couldn't FIND the music.

Neuraxis was up next. We'd seen these guys doing pushups and bicep curls across the street from the club in the grass; another activity that would only serve to confuse grandmothers driving by on their way to dinner at the local cafeteria. I liked Neuraxis more; they were techno-brutal-death like Gigan but less mathy. More groove. The hugely muscled singer's shrieks threatened to burn out the over-loading PA on every third syllable. Two enormously fat chicks with gelatinous, innertube bellies conducted a flailing two-person mosh pit. They were soon joined by a gigantic young man in a gray collared shirt who tried his damndest to swing his right arm out of the socket while simultaneously attempting to hyperextend his left knee with a series of random kicks. Ignoring them was almost impossible; my final impression of Neuraxis was a catchy, driving last song - very heavy, worthy of banging, the band a whirlwind on stage, their performance sadly upstaged by the frenzied ballet of limb-flinging, belly-busting fuckery on the dance floor.

Blackguard was up next. We took a spot at the stage corner, keeping a wary eye on the fatstorm behind us. I've been curious about Blackguard for quite some time as they have one of the few female drummers in extreme metal. Justine did not fail to disappoint. She kept it steady and relentless while her bandmates put on a performance worthy of an arena rather than a small club. It's been a long time since I've seen a band with that much personality. Vocalist Paul, similar in beefy look to the Neuraxis singer, bounced around with the energy of Bruce Dickinson, screaming endlessly without a break. I was incredibly impressed; he was a testimony to youth, vigor and fitness. The bassist wielded his Rickenbacker with panache, leaning over the barrier, his expression intense, engaged, smiling to the audience members who happily soaked up the energy. The two guitarists played solid, melodic, folky-bouncy riffs. Although their music and performance borders on cartoonish at times (think Metalocalypse), Blackguard is seriously having a great time and they want you to know. I could not help but get caught up in the sheer joy flowing from them; they are clearly in the middle of a wonderful dream.

After that, it was time for the Schweine. The set change was quick; soon the Austrians stalked upon the stage. Covered in blood (which Prokingu wisely refused to drink when Helmuth, that trickster, offered it to him earlier), Belphegor ripped into a track from their new record. Their set was solid, albeit far more staid than any other band on the bill. Helmuth throttled his guitar, roaring and screeching. In between verses, he expelled vast amounts of white phlegm into his goatee where it swang, glistening, our very own death metal Alien. At one point, he had hawk threading off his beard, his guitar and the knee of his pants. I kept waiting for the spit to be directed into the crowd but Helmuth was content to cover himself in his own sick through the set.

It was probably the best Belphegor set I've seen; a month's worth of touring has them honed sharp and efficient. Helmuth punctuated still points in the songs with grunts of "Texxxxxxas" and some rather tour-weary utterances of "Fuuuuuuck." Soon they were at the last song, "Stigma Diabolicum." The set felt short to me. I could have used a few more sonic blasts of diabolical evil.

The house soundman promptly came over the PA with overly loud strip club patter about "The party's not over, getcher $3 wells, let's keep this place hoppin'". If we hadn't been wincing enough already, he then proceeded to pump Ministry's "Jesus Built My Hot Rod" at max volume. Boo. We dashed outside.

Once he was sans blood and sputum, we joined Helmuth back on the bus. My plan fell neatly into effect. All drinking peer pressure was directed towards my two companions, while I was kindly given a water then allowed to enjoy the conversation and company unmolested. There was punching, pinching and tussling, many toasts to various things mundane and profound, a run to the convenience store where I learned you can't buy beer after midnight on weekends and a few near wipeouts on the deceptively flat bus floor. The hours flew by. Helmuth announced "Cigarette! Outside!" We all stood up. Crashing ensued. I picked up a camera, several bottles and Prokingu from the floor.

Out in the parking lot, Helmuth tried to put his last cigarette in my mouth. There's something faintly terrifying about a big, blood covered fist clutching a glowing Marlboro heading straight for your eye, while out of focus in the background, Helmuth's face is a rictus of determination as he shouts, "COME ON! SMOKE IT!" The heat of the ember flashed across my cheek as I dodged backward. More staggering and tussling ensued. Finally, I announced we were leaving; it was 5am and I was all in. That did not please our stalwart pal. Austrian and Texan went head to head:

Helmuth: "Let's go inside, one last drink!"
Me: "No."
Helmuth: "Come on, Erika, please one last drink on the bus."
Me: "No man, we gotta go."
Helmuth: "Fuuuuuck, come on!"
Me: "I'm sorry, we have to go."
Helmuth: "Well then one last drink on the bus then you can go, yes?"

This exchange was repeated four more times. You gotta love the guy for his focus. He really does try.

We finally bid him goodbye at 5:15am, sending him on his way to a badly needed shower, two final shows, then a "return to the civilized world." Not a drop of alcohol had passed my lips (many thanks to my companions for taking the pain). Belphegor returns in May. For now, the record is even - 1:1. I have proven it is possible to resist the master badgerer. Til the next challenge, then! I accept!

Front Row Ruminations

2011-02-27T15:34:00.004-06:00

A few thoughts whilst being mashed upon at the Absu show last night:

1. Absu fans are in better shape than Exodus fans. I expected the typical subtropical tempur-pedic shoggoth of plus-30 BMI bodies oozing around me. Instead, I got the unfamiliar pain of actual bony protruberances and ribcages. Sad testament to society when a sharp elbow in your side is a novelty.

2. If you want to keep your spot at the front, plant your feet and grab the barrier with one hand and lean back slightly. You form a pyramid, which as Egypt has shown us, is a solid and timeless way to take up space.

3. If you are short and trapped behind a taller guy while I've got a spot at his shoulder and can see perfectly well, don't make sad puppy eyes at me imploring me to move. The sun will burn out first.

4. If you are front row but don't care about the band and spend the entire set as motionless and expressionless as you would be waiting in line to buy bleach at HEB, then WHY ARE YOU THERE?

Immortal and Absu at Backstage Live was a good time. Standing in the back, I was shielded from the unbecoming, Gene Simmons-esque monkeying Abbath does which so infuriated and disgusted me in Eindhoven. You're one of the original kings of the black metal scene, man - have a little dignity. This was one of those shows where socializing with friends was more important than the bands, though I will say, Absu kicked all our asses.

Have three Morgengrau songs in the works and riffs for a dozen more. I am understanding why people hate the Edge III trem system and trems in general. But then again, I didn't take guitar back up to be a lazy shit who can't deal with instrument technology - I'll figure that bitch out eventually.

Drifter is on hiatus while we look for a new drummer.

Working on a new tune for Posiedon's Anger and recently finished one titled "Child of Flame" for Bracaglia. Banged out some guest vocals for Austin symphonic dark metallers Vesperian Sorrow and am working on vocals for their side project, Odysseum.

New job is still excellent but rather busy right now which explains the lack of blogs.

Lastly, I continue to stubbornly draw breath despite my ever increasing decrepitude (have added an endocrinologist to my physician collection). I liken myself to a Ferrari - looks awesome, runs great when all planets are in alignment but otherwise spends a lot of time in the shop.

2010 Learnings

2011-01-24T10:57:00.002-06:00

Yeah yeah, I know... it's almost February but I figured this was still worth posting.

1. A male lemur is called a dictator.
2. I don't want to live in the Netherlands.
3. Finnish concerts rule because Finns hate touching each other.
4. I can sing and play guitar at the same time.
5. It's possible to have a 2cm chunk of bone hacked out of your jaw and take only Advil for pain.
6. In WWII, tanks parked over soldiers' foxholes and gassed them with their exhaust.
7. It's possible to go to a show after having surgery that same morning.
8. I can take my scuba mask off 27 feet underwater and NOT have a panic attack.
9. Feeding fishies hot dogs while diving is fun.
10. Diving in silty water can be the most claustrophobic experience ever.
11. Screaming at your neighbors repeatedly can actually get them to stop misbehaving.
12. It's possible to have a corporate job and not have sold your soul.
13. It's never too late to start a new band.
14. The book "The Wolfen" is even better now that I've been to NYC since I last read it.
15. John Carpenter's "The Thing" (1982) still holds an ocean's worth of water even after 28 years.
16. It's possible to complete your dreams.
17. It's better to take a risk than to stay in old habits for the sake of safety.
18. It wasn't me, it was them.
19. Do something about your situation or shut the fuck up.

Unbound

2010-12-23T13:44:00.010-06:00

2010 was intense. I had promised myself it would be a year of change.

2009 ended with me stressed and unhappy. My job sucked. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't concentrate. Didn't know how to be still any more. Am I a heavy metal lifer or a crappy corporate project manager or just a fool trying to have my cake and eat it, too? I didn't know any more.

Sick and tired of feeling incompetent, I decided I'd try something new-ish and took up guitar again. Playing had been an intense love during my adolescence. From age 13 to 17, my boyfriend of choice was a piece of shit red guitar and an amp with no distortion. Every afternoon, from 3:30 until 7, I'd hammer that POS until my mother would bellow at me to stop. My dream was a Kramer Voyager in white (unlike the ever-so-80s craquelure finish pictured below):

Human boyfriends and college eventually got in the way. The red POS and amp were sold at a flea market for $35. I convinced myself I'd sucked royally at guitar and it was better for me to just sing. But I never forgot how much I liked playing, even if I had sucked.

It's been eating at me for 20 years.

In Sept 2009, I picked up a black Schecter Omen and Line 6 Spider III amp, plus a Boss Metal Core pedal (yes, I tried the Metal Zone and didn't like it). Shortly therefafter, a Mesa 4X12 Stiletto cabinet showed up to go along with the Marshall TSL 100 I got for trade.

Oh six string boyfriend, how I missed you.

It didn't take long for me to start looking at other guitars. The Schecter wasn't jealous and was actually looking for a break from the daily hammering. After much debate, I brought home an Ibanez Xiphos XPT700 in blue chameleon:

I just realized a couple weeks ago, I ended up buying the modern version of my beloved Kramer Voyager. Life repeats itself, closing its unfinished circles.

So I played. Hard. I learned scales. Forced myself to pick efficiently, rather than saw away like a marionette on crack. Started jamming covers with some friends. When I spoke about playing, I resisted the impulse to say "I suck." More times than not, I said, "I'm having a lot of fun." In the summer of 2010, it happened: my speed and accuracy increased by an exponential amount. There was more ringing out than bonging of wrong strings. There even were pinch harmonics.

I said to myself, "Goddammit, I'm taking back what I didn't get as a teenager. I'm going to play guitar and do vocals in a band of my own."

Thus, Morgengrau was born.

Fueled by the realization that I did not suck as a guitarist and could learn something new even at my advanced age, I began going through an intense period of career assessment. I was stretched far too thin on the work front, a cinder, really. This cannot continue, I told myself.

Some of you will remember my excitement over getting my project management professional certification back in December 2008. You know what?

I hated doing PM, at least in the role I had.

I felt like an utter failure, even though my "ships" did stay afloat. There was no way in hell I'd let them sink: I was constantly bailing water to keep the bows from foundering, patching sails, repairing the engines and begging my crew to just do their fucking jobs and not filibuster about why they couldn't finish a task so simple a 5 year old with some gumption could do.

Exhausted. Drowning in the deeps of my own "personal success" dream.

After a year of searching, I took a different job. It's not PM. It's magical. I'm so much happier. So much less stressed. It's not perfect - given I work with other humans - but it's renewed my faith that one can work for a megacorporation and not trade your soul for a paycheck.

Music kept me sane despite the workplace misery. I went to 39 shows in 2010, three of which were multi-day festivals. Discovered what an amazing festival Jalometalli is. Had a lot of laughs with Drifter, culminating in a bang-up gig Sept 18 at Clicks Billards in San Antonio, TX. For the first time in my life, I did NOT hypercriticize myself (oh FUCK look how fat you are, you have bingo wings, etc, etc) while watching video of the gig. We destroyed that night. Took a chance and entered the Hail of Bullets Karaoke contest for Operation Z and won second place (that blew my mind). Recorded a few songs for Tony Bracaglia, although the last quarter of the year was a rout due to that jaw surgery which made singing impossible.

Read 16 books.

Kept my weight and blood levels stable.

Did a pro photosession with the very talented Roseann Dreasher of CapturedInPrint.com, which I'd been promising myself since 2007.

Remodeled my office after thinking about it for 7 years.

Stopped drinking coffee.

And most importantly, remembered who I truly am.

Many thanks to the faithful who read this blog. Your interest reminds me I have something of worth to contribute. May you enter 2011 with courage and find the insight, adventure and satisfaction you desire.

2010 Shows

2010-12-23T13:37:00.003-06:00

39 this year, but with three multi-day fests under my belt, felt more like 50. Ow, my ears. What was that you said?

Triptykon and Gorgoroth at Jalometalli were the top highlights.

Jan 8 - Ignitor, Militia, Birth AD at Club Encore, Austin, TX
Jan 9 - Birth AD, Hexlust, Vector, Ex Mortis at Ten Eleven, San Antonio, TX
Jan 22 - Sarcolytic, Disfigured at Club Encore, Austin TX
Jan 25 - Anvil and Broken Teeth at Emo's, Austin, TX
Jan 30 - Drifter, Suicide Solution, Hexlust, Desmortes at Red 7, Austin, TX
Feb 8 - Goatwhore, Suffocation at Emos, Austin, TX
Feb 9 - Immolation, Nile at San Antonio, TX
Feb 10 - Immolation, Nile at Houston, TX
Feb 17 - Birth AD, Rotting Corpse, Hexlust at Headhunters, Austin, TX
Feb 19 - DRI, Blunt Force Traum, Condemned Unit, Birth AD at Emos, Austin
Feb 27 - Sad Wings, Drifter, Black Tora at Hot Shots, San Antonio, TX
March 12 - Drifter, Killa Maul, Dead Earth Politics, Blackholicus at Club Encore, Austin, TX
March 18 - Goatwhore at Headhunters, Austin, TX
March 20 - Birth AD at Headhunters, Austin TX
April 17 - Manifestation at Broken Neck, Austin, TX
April 23 - Drifter, Whole Lotta Led, Warpigs at Dirty Dog, Austin TX
May 1 - Warbeast at Dirty Dog, Austin, TX
May 11 - Cannibal Corpse, Skeletonwitch, Lecherous Nocturne, Devourment at Emos, Austin, TX
May 15 - Drifter at Alice Bike Fest, Alice, TX
May 22 - Drifter, Killa Maul, Warpigs at Red Eyed Fly, Austin, TX
May 28, 29, 30 - Maryland Death Fest, Baltimore, MD
June 2 - Goatwhore, Pestilence, Vital Remains at Emos, Austin, TX
June 13 - Primal Fear, Havok, Ignitor at Emos, Austin, TX
June 25 - Birth AD at Club Encore, Austin, TX
July 24 - Drifter at Boomerz, Austin, TX
July 30 - Hod = at Emos, Austin, TX
Aug 6 - Goatwhore at Zombies, San Antonio, TX
Aug 7 - Drifter, Killa Maul, Warpigs at Red Eyed Fly, Austin, TX
August 12, 13 - Jalometalli festival, Oulu, Finland
September 18 - Drifter at Clicks, San Antonio, TX
October 20 - Immolation, Vader, Abagail Wiliams, Lecherous Nocturne at Emos, Austin, TX
October 29 - Triptykon, 1349, Yakuza, Mammoth Grinder - Emos, Austin, TX
October 30 - Danzig, Marduk, Possessed at Warehouse Live, Houston, TX
November 20 - Hexlust, Black Thorn Halo at The Parlor, Austin, TX
November 23 - Watain, Goatwhore, Averse Sefira, Hod, Black Anvil at Emos, Austin, TX
December 2 - Forbidden, Birth AD, Bonded By Blood, Gama Bomb, Evile at Emos, Austin, TX
December 17 - Eindhoven Metal Meeting, The Netherlands
December 30 - Birth AD at Headhunters, Austin, TX

2010 Reading Recap

2010-12-23T13:32:00.003-06:00

Proud to say, I read sixteen books this year. Seven more last year AND I got more out of what I read.

Overall takeaways:
The Wolfen is a fantastic book and even better when you've been to NYC a few times.
The Forgotten Soldier is a work of fiction, NOT an autobiography. Sorry Guy.
If it didn't pay a slave wage, I'd be a morgue tech in a heartbeat.
Bernie Siegel has the right idea but he's a complete fruitcake.
Everybody who's ever had to speak to another person should at least skim Getting to Yes.
The stock market is completely imaginary.
Reading The Gulag is like being a prisoner of it.

The Fun Corner:
The Wolfen: Whitley Strieber
The Forgotten Soldier: Guy Sajer
83 Hours Until Dawn: Gene Miller and Barbara Jane Mackle
Waiter Rant: Steve Dublanica
Down Among the Dead Men: Michelle Williams
Heart of Darkness: Joseph Conrad
The Picture of Dorian Gray: Oscar Wilde
The Time Machine: H.G. Wells

The Masochist Corner:
The Gulag: Anne Applebaum

The Fruit Corner:
Love, Medicine & Miracles: Bernie Siegel
Death: The Final Phase of Growth: Elizabeth Kübler-Ross

The Nerd Corner:
Finance and Accounting for Non-Financial Managers: William G. Droms
Getting to Yes: Roger Fisher, et al.
Nice Girls Don't Get the Corner Office: Lois P. Frankel
When is Enough, Enough: Laurie Ashner, Mitch Meyerson
Crucial Conversations: Tools for Talking When The Stakes are High: Kerry Patterson, et al.

Unstoppable

2010-11-23T15:24:00.002-06:00

Five hours ago, a nurse was hooking me up to an IV and prepping me for a small surgery to remove another errant growth (albeit small) from inside my cantankerous body.

Watain, Goatwhore, Averse Sefira and Hod are in town tonight. I'm going.

Metal conquers all!

Dunkelheit

2010-11-14T17:29:00.004-06:00

The smell of snow was crisp in the air. Sounds were ghostly, muted. A dull reddish glow suffused the night sky, the result of far away city lights mixed with misty fog which had rolled in a few hours before. Deep on the street, the snowfall was untouched, virgin. We were the first to break the smoothness, tramping through in our boots and leather jackets, breath pluming in the air. While not Norway, it was still perfect, this black metal night.

That was 1996. A lifetime ago.

Let's take a walk, I'd said earlier. We'd been listening to Burzum's Filosofem and were full of mesmerizing darkness. Outside was Dunkelheit.

The owl was sitting in the trees behind the house when we returned. His singular hooting led us to his shape among the branches - a dense oval topped by two tiny tufts. It's amazing how your eyes can see so much once you've been in the dark a while. It's amazing how much you can feel.

We watched the owl. Snow fell. Trees creaked softly. The few street and house lights were surrounded by coronas of flurried glow. The world narrowed to four points: us, the trees, the falling snow and the owl.

I can't take it. It hurts too much to remember.

It's been years since I thought of that beautiful muted night, the snow and the owl. Many miles of life have passed beneath the soles of my boots since then, yet when I hear the sawing guitars of Burzum, I'm back in the snow, under that strange apocalyptic red glow, aching with the intangible dark misery that is black metal.

On Friday, we re-watched "Until the Light Takes Us," the masterful documentary on black metal by Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell. The film is poignant. Its subjects are lonely, lost in many ways, yet found as they walk their own paths. Listening to Fenriz talk about how black metal has become a comedy of itself rips my heart out. Would someone who wasn't in the movement understand what it's like to have this - it's more than music - this Way, co-opted, stamped flat, stripped of all that made it deep like the fjords and turned into a grinning, hopping parody of itself? Would anyone not of it understand what it must be like to be among the first, the creators, to watch this destruction?

The film does an admirable job of conducting this sense of loss of one's art to the larger forces of the human world. Black metal is no longer covert. It can be displayed in a gallery, made into comic books, degraded into a character in a video game. My lip curls as I write this, and I feel like the famous iconic image of Frost, an image I've always loved:

It's hard for me to describe what black metal means to me. It's always been. How do you describe that which runs through your veins, ran through them before a note of black metal ever was laid to tape, and will run until my heart beats its last? Is it even possible to put that sense of self into words? Maybe not. Maybe that's why the strains of horribly recorded guitars and phantom, painted faces rang truer to me upon discovery than any written story of spirituality or belief. This was me, finally. And I wasn't alone.

I've always chosen the darkness. My father had an old spoken world LP on witchcraft which contained a booklet featuring many old woodcuts. I spent hours pouring over those pictures. I didn't want to rescue the maiden being ravished by the devil in those drawings; I wanted to be that maiden.

The ever tightening circle of the aging metal world has brought me closer to the progenitors of black metal than I ever remotely hoped to be. I keep waiting for someone to grip me by the collar and belt and haul me out, expose me as a charlatan, a fake. It doesn't happen. Somehow I am allowed to remain. And I desperately hold myself back in these moments, because what I really want to do is grasp their hands and say breathlessly, "Are you really real?"

Of all the places I have been in the world, Scandinavia is the only place I've ever felt a sense of belonging. Not belonging to society, no - domestic society is as alien there as in the US or Japan. No, this feeling of belonging is to the earth, the sky, the water and the wind. To the before, to the after, to the forever.

Watch the film. Listen to Burzum, or if that hurts your ears, Ulver's Kveldssanger. Both albums possess the same sense of wild, ancient spirit. This is a spirit which cannot be quelled by men who worship in a silly wooden house topped with an edifice of sacrifice. It is of the open sky, the wide sea, the driven snow against a backdrop of evergreen. It is the spirit of true black metal.

Hviss lyset tar oss. Hviss lyset tar mig.

Masochism

2010-11-08T11:19:00.004-06:00

MASOCHISM:
[mas-uh-kiz-uhm]
- Noun
Definition: The Gulag by Anne Applebaum. 736 total pages, featuring 700 pages of mind-numbing statistics plus 36 pages of actual interesting content.

Sometime in April 2008, my bassist Stony mentioned there was only one military/political book he'd never finished. We trade books back and forth, having the same interests in large clanking machines that blow things up and all varieties of human suffering. A book Stony can't finish must be a heroic challenge. I'm a sucker for those.

The Gulag was presented to me at the next Drifter practice.

I started reading it December 2009 in the movie theater, waiting for The Road to begin. Finished October 2010. Eleven months. What a slog. Read every bloody boring page. So there, Stony. I win.

Homecoming

2010-10-26T00:47:00.024-05:00

Once upon a time, a shy girl stole a magazine from art class. That magazine changed her life.

During my adolescence, my relationship with rules was deeply conflicted: one side shy and afraid of being labeled as “bad,” the other side all about rebellion, anger and the breaking of everything. How much I respected your rules depended on how much I liked you – my parents’ rules could fuck themselves but for certain beloved teachers I would penitently honor their every request and limitation.

Such was my 10th grade art teacher, Mrs. M. I really admired and liked her. Her classroom was on the second floor of the high school, a large dusty place, smelling of paint and paper. In the back of the room, in a ragtag cardboard box was a pile of old magazines. Students would use pictures from them for projects. Written in black marker on one flap was:

“Do not take magazines from art room! Thank you!”

I had a study hall in that room and would spend it seated at a square table in the back, next to the windows. This was the “heads” table – the realm of the kids who favored denim and leather jackets. We would work on our drawings and discuss Jethro Tull or Judas Priest. Cigarettes and sometimes other items were exchanged, although I was a silent watcher to those transactions. It was enough that my misfit self could find acceptance at this table.

One day, I selected a copy of American Artist from the magazine box and was idly paging through it while surreptitiously stealing glances at the mulleted boy across from me. He was a guitarist and I had a monstrous crush on him. The sun was streaming in through the windows to my left, golden dust motes dancing in the air. All was quite except the scraping of pencils and another kid’s Walkman at the end of the table, Jethro Tull like always.

I turned the page and was faced with this (click to enlarge):

I forgot all about my mulleted crush. I no longer heard Aqua Lung floating tinnily through the air. For several long breathless moments, there was only me and “Dream Horse.” It was like the world stopped for a moment, an exquisite pause of gleaming white noise.

I turned the page and stopped again.

Where Dream Horse had stunned me, this next image struck me down.

“Priest of Dark Flight.” Rapidly, I scanned the article’s text, looking for an explanation of this god of mine. The figure had been seen by the artist on “an interior journey.” Where, in my head? To this day, there has never been anything that ever reverberated with me more than that first glimpse of the eagle-headed, wooden-armored mythic with hands pressed in unknowable, animistic prayer. It was what I always wanted to draw but could not.

I cut out The Priest, secreted it in my history notebook, and returned the magazine to the box.

Over the course of the following months, I returned to the now mutilated magazine again and again – satisfied with my theft of The Priest but still intrigued by the other drawings. Machine for a Journey of Indeterminate Depth captured me with its obscured face and lion claw hand. Birds made of rotting, wrapped bundles of fabric hinted at journeys through moth-eaten lands where the only sound was the sawing of cellos. And then there was Guardian of the Deepest Gate.

Headless, this shield-carrying centaur thing dwarfed its creator, artist Jos. A. Smith. Joe had been photographed working on the piece, seated on a stool before the eight foot drawing. I’d initially overlooked the photo, so enchanted was I by Dream Horse’s zipper mouth. Now, my eyes kept going back to The Guardian. An unfinished neck drifted into nothing. Wrappings and spiked armor covered a study equine body. My soul vibrated with ache, seeing this image from within me captured on paper by another person. I was both glad and frustrated by it; glad it existed so that I could glory in it, frustrated that my own artistic skills were too undeveloped to produce anything of such blackened majesty.

That June, right before school let out, I stole American Artist, July 1981 from the box in the art room. Sorry, Mrs. M. It had become my Ark of the Covenant.

Throughout the ensuing sixteen years, American Artist, July 1981 remained with me. It endured through countless junk purges and eight moves, a marriage, a divorce, a cross-continental drive. Safe in a plastic sleeve, nestled in various bookcases, it would come out every so often to be worshipped. I had puzzle-pieced it back together, full of regret for cutting out Priest and mangling the fine ink lines of Dream Horse. Occasionally, I would search the Internet for evidence of the artist, looking for more of his work, to learn what had become of him. Nothing. Into the Abyss, from which all these fantastic beings had sprung.

In 2005, sitting on my library floor, I pulled out the magazine once again. It occurred to me that my then-boyfriend might like Machine for a Journey of Indeterminate Depth, as his band focused on similar imagery. He, too, was thunderstruck. In ten minutes he’d found the artist on the Internet. A bitter laugh escaped me – I couldn’t even navigate the Abyss properly to find their creator, let alone draw anything comparable.

It didn’t matter. A message was left on Joe’s voicemail at Pratt, asking for permission to use The Machine. Around two weeks later, Joe called back and said yes. A friendship began.

In May 2006, a package arrived at the door.

“We got something from Joe,” I said, bringing the tube inside. We’d just gotten married and knew he was sending us something, what I had no idea. A roll of paper was inside, protected by tissue. When we pulled an inch of the paper out, I saw a familiar, straight ink line. It can’t be, I thought.

But it was. The Machine. The real Machine, the original.

I leapt away like it would scorch me. There are no words to describe the nameless, elated horror of realizing we’d been entrusted with this priceless work. Penniless backwater little girls don’t grow up to own magical art from a magazine they stole from art class. They just don’t.

That summer we flew to New York City to meet Joe and his wife. It was like we had known them forever. I spent the afternoon in a state of greasy bamboozlement, sitting outside of my body, looking in. Where am I and how did I get here?

The next summer found us heading to Joe’s house in the woods of Pennsylvania. Shrouded in brilliant green trees, the hulking Craftsman was a dappled enigma waiting to be solved by our entry. Again outside my body, I swam through the humid forest air, drifting stunned onto the porch and finally inside. We entered Joe’s cluttered studio. I was terribly curious and wanted to peek through the piles of art but held back, not wanting to be rude. Fifty years worth of creation surrounded us. Drawings were scattered everywhere. Rolls of paper were propped in corners. Several partially finished paintings stood on easles. Somewhere in here are The Priest, The Guardian. Their presence was a sonorous bass tone humming in my bones.

“Do you have Dream Horse?” I asked. I couldn’t bring myself to ask about the other pieces, not just yet.

“That’s been sold,” Joe replied. “I sold that one a long time ago, I don’t remember to who.”

Lost then. Grief.

“Feel free to dig around.” Joe indicated the piles with a wave of his hand. “Have a look. Go ahead!”

We pawed carefully, tentatively. Large drawings balanced on top of playing-card-sized frames crashed around. I found myself automatically neatening and straightening the precious piles, worried for their safety. Joe was unconcerned, knocking things over as he wended through footpaths to show us curios from foreign lands, relics from his meditations and rituals and adventures.

I am good at nothing, I thought.

At some point, Joe began hauling the rolls out of the corners and dragging them onto the porch to display. Birds called, flitting through the dense forest. The air was like a week-old damp washrag draped over my head. Sweat glued my military pants to my thighs. The whole experience was an impromptu sweat lodge.

Joe unrolled; suddenly The Priest of Dark Flight was praying before me.

My first reaction was shock at the size: from the magazine print, I had no sense of scale. The actual drawing was over 5 feet wide. My second reaction was to be stunned by the figure’s black, gleaming eyes which had not translated in the reproduction. This drawing was deep. I teetered on the edge.

“Here, let me get the others.” Joe laid The Priest down on the porch floor where any number of unnameable things could happen to it. We hurriedly rolled it back up.

Guardian of the Deepest Gate unrolled and unrolled and unrolled. Joe had his wife bring him a chair. Standing up on it, he was barely able to get the whole thing out onto the porch. I stood, goggling. It still had no head. I realized the picture in the magazine had been staged; the drawing as photographed in 1981 had been complete, not unfinished like I’d thought. Its headlessness made it more ominous, more unexplainable. Joe told us its story, how he encountered it during a meditation, how it had been screaming, denying entry to its realm, a figure of incredible power and danger. “I’ve told some shamans about this,” he said. “They told me never to go back to this place without someone else with me. It’s too dangerous, otherwise.”

Guardian became ours that day. It watches over us in our living room. I talk to it often, maybe for my own reassurance that I won't come out of the bedroom some night and discover it standing free, all ahowl, stinking like brimstone and anise while my house starts to smolder around it.

I've been waiting to redo my library for years. Something has made me wait, a sense of incompleteness. Something missing. Don't bother.

About a year ago, I started to know what was missing. Three months later, I realized that missing piece of puzzle was within my grasp. A few weeks after that, I made a choice that was both monumental and simple and completely incomprehensible to the shy little girl who lives within me.

June 2010 found me walking alone through the streets of New York City, no longer outside of my body like when we met Joe for lunch but fully aware and unafraid. In my pocket was a check. We hopped a bus to Pennsylvania the next day and made our way again to the Craftsman in the woods. The next afternoon, I shyly regarded The Priest where it had been unrolled at my feet, contemplating those endless black eyes that had always looked into my soul, saying “I know you.”

I wrote the check that night before I could chicken out.

Then, thunderbolt.

Joe said, “So the fellow who bought Dream Horse contacted me. He’s retiring and wants to sell it.”

I did some math in my head quickly, then decided it didn’t matter. If I were on my deathbed, would I regret not taking this chance to capture the last of my beloved images from American Artist, July 1981? Yes, I would. I would lie there, dying, cursing myself for being a poor kid who thought it was better to have money in the bank than something which resonated so hard with your soul that it made you forget to breathe.

As I write this, Dream Horse is to my right, stepping high on his 70s fabric landscape, his zipper mouth grimacing with cryptic equine wisdom. The Priest is directly in front of me; enormous, ancient. I prayed to it tonight, this god of mine, this thing that has always been my god. It’s the thing in my heart that bore me through five thousand terrified nights and days of childhood, the thing which burns in me on stage, the thing which flows through me like a relentless, rust-colored river and gives me strength to go on when the tired child in me wants nothing more than to lay down and just stop.

The journey started on that sunny day in 1986 is now complete. There is a wholeness in me I have never felt before, a wholeness long needed, long sought. I will say this only once on this blog – I am blessed to be surrounded by these soul dreams. They are dark and complex and beautiful and I choke up almost daily when I see them. Their energy fills me, giving me the strength to begin a new journey which has been a long time coming.

I listened to my heart on that day in the classroom, where I broke the rules and stole the magazine. Would that we could hear so clearly all the time - our dreams would come to us like old friends, and we would find ourselves healed.

And the moral of this story is...

2010-10-19T13:29:00.002-05:00

If you finally lose it and quit your job in a sudden and entertaining manner, expressing your personality and finally freeing yourself from the abuse of the entitled American public, you must be:

1. Potentially dangerous
2. Mentally unstable
3. Have a substance abuse problem

Your behavior couldn't possibly be spurred by the culture of "the customer is always right even if they're a blazing nuclear asshole who shouldn't be allowed near houseplants let alone other humans" - no, not possible. It's you. You're the problem, you're the criminal.

Now get back to work. Mr. Johnson has been waiting on hold for 15 seconds, needing to understand why YOU didn't make him lose 40 pounds in 30 days even though YOUR diet herbal smoothie colon cleanser advert said* he would.

*Results not typical. Subjects who also exercised and ate clean, healthy food reported an average 5-10 lb weight loss over 30 days. You can achieve the same by cutting off your head. Society will also benefit. Go here for further information.

Resolute

2010-10-17T01:12:00.003-05:00

I'm not going to let my defecto-genes get me down.

They didn't get the whole cyst. The interior (lingual) side of my jaw is bulging, slightly forward of the operated area. It's not inflamed, hurting or getting bigger so I'm watching and waiting. The operated area is healing up well, although it's still markedly sensitive to increases in blood pressure. Exercising and singing are either uncomfortable or next to impossible at the moment.

Histology on the removed material came back as a traumatic bone cyst with cemento-osseus dysplasia. A mouthful but the main takeaway? Not cancer. Anything, even if the cyst regrows (which it may), is better than cancer.

I've been wracking my brain trying to figure what type of trauma I incurred. The only thing I can come up with is getting slugged in the jaw by a 500 lb. horror at The Brass Mug, in Tampa, FL. We'd flown down to see Watain on their 2007 tour. It was one of those miserable shows where there are 20 diehards and one super-mega sized asshole. Dude took me, Jeff, Pete Helmkamp's wife and four others out with one drunken swing. His fist struck fairly hard on the left side of my jaw, knocking it completely out of joint. Luckily, the recoil knocked it back in. Sometimes TMJ has benefits.

I thought nothing more of it until now.

Doesn't really matter - all I can do is get them to chop the other side down once it gets too involved.

ANYWAY...

Tuesday at midnight I'll be appearing on 91.7 KVRX UT student radio, banging out some serious metal and talking to the lovely DJ Aila about my varied musical adventures. If you're in the central TX area, tune in!

Wednesday - Immolation and Vader at Emos. Then, next week Friday: Triptykon and 1349 at Emos.

And Hail of Bullets is going to be at MDF 2010 - helllllll yeaaaaah!

It's all good.

Fall Colors

2010-10-05T10:51:00.004-05:00

"No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face."
- John Donne

Poetic quotes aside, it looks way worse than it feels.

Prize Fighter

2010-10-02T14:49:00.004-05:00

Except without the fight.

Or, now that I think of it, the prize, either.

Post-Op: Choppy Choppy

2010-09-30T21:06:00.003-05:00

Well.

My cyst gave up the fight way easy. It was quite the wimpy thing, despite it's horrifying appearance on the X-ray. According to my very bad-ass oral surgeon, instead of having invaded the jawbone like we thought, it was merely resting on top, like an evil, calcified Scrubbing Bubble. A couple choparoos with the bone chisel and that bad boy was out and in the specimen tray.

It appeared benign by all accounts; everyone was pleased and relieved. The surgery took less than 30 minutes and before I knew it, I was waking up out of bizarre, hallucinogenic dreams to a swirling view of the surgery room. The anesthesia was either lighter than any I have had or a different kind of drug - I have never remembered what was boiling around in my brain while out but this time I did. Orangey-brown mushroomy clouds erupted and roiled while bizarre happy music played in the background. Quite pleasant, although I much prefer being lucid and awake.

Here's a pic of me 90 minutes post-op: introducting 50% Patrick Swayze Girl!

And here's my most recent pic, 8 hours post op. I am going to have a fantastic bruise on my jawline tomorrow. Or what used to resemble a jawline and now looks more like a misshapen Zappos box jammed in my cheek.

Pre-Op

2010-09-30T09:39:00.003-05:00

Banged out a lot of stuff yesterday since I'll be unable to do much for a while after 11:30am today.

Check the Bracaglia Myspace for the cover of Led Zeppelin's "Thank you" that we just finished. We also covered "Green Manalishi" - check that out, too!

I also entered the Hail of Bullets "Operation Z" karaoke contest on kind of a whim... my death metal jam band covers three songs off "Of Frost and Winter" with me singing so I figured, what the heck? At worst, Martin will bag on me about it next time I see him. If you want to check it out, go here.

I've also exercised, cleaned my house, bought toothless person food that doesn't require chewing, and tried to tie up all my loose ends so I can just lay on the couch with my "I lost the prize fight" face and not worry about anything.

I won't lie, I'm really frightened of what I'm going to feel and looks like around 1:00pm today.

So I'll leave you kiddies with this:

Here's me at 8am this morning: unswollen, untorn and unbruised:

And here's Drifter kicking ass at Clicks in San Antonio a couple Saturdays ago.

Enjoy! Horns up!

Redirect

2010-09-28T15:03:00.003-05:00

I was going to post my long overdue blogs about the Jalometalli fest but instead I get to post this:

This X-ray was taken in March 2008 after I consulted an orthodontic surgeon about treatment of my TMJ disorder. See the dark spot I circled? Read on to learn more...

This Friday, my lower teeth started zotting with mild nerve pain. My uppers do it a lot when my allergies are bad, since several roots protrude into my sinuses and get inflamed along with the sinus cavity. Lowers, however - unusual. I started probing around in that muscle attachment, thinking my masseter might be super tense from TMJ crap, causing inflammation and thus sensitivity. Massage might help.

Then I felt the lump.

I was sitting front row at the MMA Tournament of Champions in Tyngsboro, MA at that time. Pea-sized, hard and immobile, the lump was directly underneath a tooth which has given me problems with sensitivity in the past. It's had a filling at the gumline. Of course, instead of proceeding in an orderly fashion to "tooth abcess" my brain jumps straight to "cancer." Do not collect $200 and do not pass go.

So I'm shitting my britches while guys are kicking the crap out of each other not 30 feet from me. Suddenly, all my teeth on that side felt crowded and the zotting increased in intensity. I could practically feel that lump growing, eating into my teeth, getting bigger and bigger. Images of surgical steel plates replacing jawbone started to flash through my head. Not for the first time in my life, I wished I was ignorant of all things medical, one of those people who can walk around with a lymphoma the side of a VW Bug hanging off their ass and act like there's nothing to it.

Denial is a luxury I have no idea where to buy.

Stuffing my anxiety down, I held off telling Norma until we were about half way back to her house. By that time, I had calmed down enough to start thinking of the lump as an abcess that just needed to stay under control until I got home.

The rest of my weekend was spent feeling spacey and unreal while every 15 minutes or so, the great agitator that is my brain shouted, "HEY YOU'VE GOT A LUMP IN YOUR JAW!" For a while I was afraid to touch it, not wanting to feel the hard realness of it. Eventually I gutted myself up, stuck my finger in my mouth and felt along my gums until I came to the lump. Hard as a rock. My medical knowledge is deep enough that I knew this was no abscess. Abscesses are usually soft and hurt like fuck. I had no pain, just that vague sense of crowded teeth and the occasional neurological zap bolting along my jawline.

Today, I sat down in the dentist's office, got an X-ray and said, "That ain't right." A dark, globular shape lay underneath my tooth, extending out of the X-ray's field. My dentist came in and pretty much said, "My my, I have NO IDEA what that is."

Dark shapes on X-rays are bad.

Two hours later, stupified by my brain's now incessant screaming: "LUMP! LUMP! LUMP!" I sat in the oral surgeon's office, watching a woman play with her black lab in the park across the street. Calm, I said. It's going to be an abscess that's just unusual. The surgeon came in, felt around, commented on the hardness of the growth. I got a panoramic X-ray.

What had been a round shape in March 2008 now looked like a black, three fingered upside down Hamburger Helper glove, extending from the roots of my #19 molar almost all the way to the bottom of my jaw.

FUHHHHHHH...

I think I said something like, "Holy crap, would you look at that!"

A 2cm x 2.5cm odontogenic cyst has eaten away the bone in my jaw and invaded the nerve canal. It is probably benign but there are more horrifying options available. The lab will determine how much pants-soiling will be in my future.

I'll be opened up intraorally from the farthest back part of my jaw to the middle, an incision about 4-5 inches long. Then, the mass will be chiseled off. Whatever is inside it will be removed. Maybe my tooth will make it, maybe not. Then they'll tease any involvement off the nerve. If all goes well, I'll wake up sore as hell but with all my nerve function intact. If something goes wrong, I get a numb lower lip for life.

Cutting and chiseling will be done this Thursday.

FML.

Jalometalli 2010 Part 1 - World Wanderers for Winterwolf

2010-08-29T18:41:00.010-05:00

The 26 hours it took to get to Oulu had me wondering what it was I was doing. I'd already had a meltdown on a bench in Stockholm’s Arlanda airport. Hyper-fatigue had me in a wired, twitchy state, this time made critical because I hadn't slept at all on the Newark to Stockholm flight. I was convinced I would never sleep again. Bizarre Eurofashions trotted by, while I miserably tried to nap. My eyes remained darting and open. The sun came out, rays slotting neatly through one of the many skylights to shine directly on my head.

In the Russian Gulag prison camps, prisoners were kept awake to break their will. I wouldn't have made it one week.

We arrived in Oulu, Finland at 4:30pm. The baggage claim was so small and my fatigue so great I almost staggered bagless out of the airport. Realizing my mistake, I executed an oval about-face and stood mutely stupid at the claim, intensely aware of Mike and Schmier from Destruction standing to my right. At that point I was so tired I could not have named a Destruction song if my life had depended on it.

Oulu is a small, picturesque, postcard-perfect place. Quiet. SLOW. The taxi ride to the hotel was, in a word, sedate. Most European taxi rides are to be experienced with a last will and testament combined with a five-point harness; in Oulu, you resist crawling over the seat to jam your foot on the gas. I found myself looking for traffic jams or herds of cows crossing the road to explain the speed. After 26 hours in one type of vehicle or another, I was done with traveling at someone else's pace.

We’d booked a hotel room for the first night, knowing uninterrupted sleep would be essential after the preparty. The Demilich/Winterwolf crew had kindly set aside space for us in their campsite cabin – of that we would partake tomorrow. Tonight: bed.

The hotel receptionist expressed doubt over our choice of the economy room. “It is very small,” she said in her careful English. “I have a bigger one if you would like.” Yes, we are Americans, where everything has to be HUGE to be good. Not needed for us. We’ve stayed at The White House in the NYC Bowery, a human chicken coop where a two-person room was exactly six feet by ten and the ceiling was open decking lattice. Any space with six solid planar surfaces joined by 90º angles is a step above.

Plans for dinner at the nearby Indian restaurant were made then immediately dashed by a text from a friend. The Jalometalli preparty was underway and Winterwolf were going on stage at 7:30. The clock read 6:20.

Nope, can't eat. Gotta see Winterwolf. Mandatory.

We followed the reverberations of bass and drums through the city park to the preparty. It was one thing for the show to be on a grassy little island, surrounded by a picturesque pond and flowers, quite another to discover the stage was in a large blue and red circus tent. Seriously.

In the States, a metal show in a tent would be, at best, embarrassing. In Finland, with a finely appointed stage, two giant videoscreens and a light rig to put most high-end Austin clubs to shame, it was simply “metal where it is able to take place.”

We arrived in time to catch the last half of Napoleon Skullfukk’s set. Unfortunate name, not a bad band. They exuded a slight Cannibal Corpse feel, promoted by their thickset vocalist's windmilling. My rapidly progressing jetlag turned the machinegun double bass into a dreamy hypnotic. I found myself staring upwards, blankly registering the stars painted at the apex of the big top, whilst rocking back and forth to the beat like an autistic Emperor penguin.

Getting barrier space for Winterwolf was easy; only a few dozen people were in the tent, the rest drinking outside in the endless Far North sunset. At this point, I had no idea of how large a part drinking would play into the ensuing hilarity of the weekend. All I knew was that in the land of the large and tall, this very small girl got herself a prime spot to see a great band.

Winterwolf, for those who do not know, combines Boltthrower and Entombed-worship into a beast with qualities of both but a unique snarling visage of its own. Most impressive was how drummer E.R. Insane conjured Nile-sized sound out of his tiny kit: bass drum, snare, one rack tom, one floor tom, maybe 5 cymbals total. Proves the relationship of quality play to number of drums is not 1:1.

Finns are a staid people. Each grinding song was met with polite golf claps and a couple inebriated bellows. I'm used to howling between songs, channeling demons within while trying to out-guttural the men around me – I let loose with a “RRRRAWWWWRrrrrrrrrr” after “Phantoms of Madness” that trailed off into a dampened, embarrassed finish when I realized I was the only one screaming.

Dorothy, we’re not Texas anymore, that's for sure.

Winterwolf's brutal set was short but left me drained and dizzy. We staggered across the uneven canvas flooring to the beer garden, scored some very tasty Indian food (dinner plans reacquired!), then set to eating our first real meal in 10 hours.

The chicken korma revived us. Sacreligious Impalement had taken the stage. After a few songs, we tired of their campy and overdone stage presence. Two Les Paul-wielding guitarists flanked a slender, tall vocalist. The 8-foot inverted cross planted off-center on the stage nor the vocalist's blood invocations compensated for SI's unmemorable Mayhem worship. We laughed against our better judgment when the vocalist began to dramatically anoint his bandmates with blood, carefully avoiding dripping too much blood on the bookish guitarist on stage left. I could hear the previous gig’s conversation: “Dude, next gig I forbid you to drip blood on me – it ran in my eyes and I couldn’t see what I was goddamn playing!”

Between sets, we caught up with our friends in Demilich/Winterwolf who thanked us for our efforts in the front row. It’s always good to know losing your shit gave energy to the band in an otherwise vacuous room. Very quickly I found myself falling into my “Europe” speech pattern: speaking slowly, not using contractions and altering my tone to match the musical quality of Scandi-spoken English. Part of me wishes I could permanently adopt this mode, as I believe I sound more calm and intelligent. Unfortunarely, 30 seconds after I set foot on US soil the word “douchebag” is out of my mouth, and I need my nasal Northeastern accent for full effect.

Horna was up next. I like the idea of them more than their actual music. Less campy than Sacreligious Impalement, I still couldn’t get past the incongruity between the vocalist’s screeches and the bouncy, Swedish-death style riffs. One particularly melodic song inspired me to begin quietly singing nonsense operatic vocals ala Nightwish. The result was surprisingly catchy and good. Perhaps Tarja Turunen is missing out on an opportunity here.

The highlight of Horna's set was a song off their first album – no idea of the title, but it contained the sawing, straight-ahead traditional black metal guitar work which, for a few short minutes, brought everything on stage firmly into focus.

The set ended abruptly and without fanfare. The audience, quite drunk by now, bawled for Horna's return to the stage. House lights did nothing to still the boozy, garrulous din. We debated finding friends and socializing more but gave up quickly. Fatigue nausea had us firmly in its queasy grip. The Finnish night, deep only for a blink, followed us with cool breezes back through the empty Oulu streets. Unshowered with teeth barely brushed, we fell into bed, our very un-metal sleep masks guaranteeing unbroken dreams of metal adventures to come.

Part Two coming in a few days!

Embers of My Memories

2010-08-26T11:44:00.007-05:00

Last Friday, we walked up the Stockholm quay, looking for an old friend. She whom we sought was long and brown, dragonheaded, an echo of Sweden's proud past: The Svea Viking longship, where our wedding reception had been held.

She was nowhere to be found.

To our dismay, we learned the Svea was destroyed on April 28, 2007, almost a year to the day after our reception. Someone burned her. She was dismantled on May 25, 2007, never to sail the waters of Stockholm Harbor again.

docked at the quay

sailing the harbor

Just outside the circle of the crowd
One old man did stand
He looked across the waters
And blotted the sun out of his eyes with one hand
And his old eyes could almost see
The dragon ships set sail
And his old ears could almost hear
Men of great numbers call out Odin's hail
Excerpt from "One Rode to Asa Bay" - Bathory

the fired ship

Point-Counterpoint

2010-08-05T22:16:00.004-05:00

Both are terrible, but at least the deaf guy knows he's not supposed to be singing this song.

Will

2010-07-17T16:19:00.003-05:00

As of late, my life can be summarized this way:

8am - 7pm: Afraid of everything
7pm - 9pm (band practice/music stuff): I fear nothing
9pm - 8am: Afraid of everything

So, because I'm absolutely awash in anxiety and stress right now, I decided to add scuba diving training to the irrational misery mountain I've been scaling every day.

I'm not going to take a tropical vacation. Me down in Grand Cayman in the sun, kicking back on the beach, then diving amongst coral reefs in endless, pristine blue? Nope. That's not the Skullgal way. Everything I do has to be high stakes and hard, preferably in the shade or inside. Therefore, I booked a shark dive at the Kolmården Tropicarium Aquarium in August, when I am in Sweden.

In 2005, I missed my opportunity to swim with the sharks at the Manly Aquarium in Australia. My sinuses were impacted with snot; diving was not a good idea. Life [read: my job] has not seen fit to send me back to Australia, so no sharks for me. Missing that opportunity has been a regret.

This winter I discovered I could undo that regret.

Kolmården Tropicarium requires a dive cert, which Manly did not. Last month, I embarked on the certification process, excited to complete it so I could experience the sharks.

Easier written than done.

I've always loved the water. Some of my earliest memories are of trying to "swim" in the bathtub. Up and down the tub I'd go, splashing and submerging, opening my eyes underwater despite there being nothing to see. Childhood summers found me swimming in the creek near our house at every available moment, diving down to the bottom to scoop up clay which we then took home to make misshapen things we labeled "pots."

Water-based activities halted once I entered adolescence. The swimming hole in the creek had washed away, community pools were too expensive and distant, and my interests were focused on when Cannibal Corpse was playing next. My boyfriend's family had a nice pool; I swam a bit but the older I got, the more cognizant I was of my ivory hide's incompatibility with the sun. By the time I graduated college and moved to Massachusetts, my interest in swimming was over.

Fast-forward 10 years; I'm back in the pool, rehabbing my broken hip and atrophied leg. As my strength returned, I learned I could slice through the water easily, tirelessly, feeling seven feet long and smooth as glass. A great feeling. No fear, no struggling, just me, the water and my slow, calm breathing. Swimming - love it.

And then there was scuba.

Filled with a mixture of horror and burning shame, I found myself utterly panicked on Day Two of scuba. On my knees in a mere three feet of water, I could not clear my mask of water during the mask skills. Water. In my mask. Can't get it out. Everyone is watching me struggle. Eyes shut tight, bubbles exploding from my regulator, I hurriedly made the "not good" sign and stood up. On the surface: tears, panting, mind racing to generate reasons why I should quit, telling the instructor "I'm really not feeling it tonight." So embarrassed. So ANGRY at myself.

Life has been really stressful for me, lately. When stress increases, my anxiety problems deepen. Simple tasks become difficult, perhaps terrifying. Such became the mask clear. Utter terror. Take your mask off. Put it back on. Blow the water out of it. In three feet of water.

The Mental Conversation:
My anxious self: "Mask water blurry burning chemicals my eyes can't breathe!"
My rational self: "You are an anxious ass. You know that. Calm down. Nothing is wrong."
MAS: "Bubbles feel ucky on face swallow yucky water mask still full people watching fuck can't!"
MRS: "Ass. You are an ass. You split your pants in front of 1000 people in Mexico and didn't care. Calm down. You love the water."
MAS: "No no no no fuck the sharks fuck the money want out want dry!"
MRS: "You need serious medication. I'm giving up for a while."

Continuing with scuba became one of the most difficult acts of will in my life.

I write this blog after having completed three dives this morning in Lake Travis. Depth was 37 feet and total time was 65 minutes. I used 2100 PSI of air whereas most of my classmates used 1.5X that. And... I took off that fucking mask TWICE, at 27 feet, and got it back on with very little hysteria.

Tomorrow is two more dives.

Then I am certified for life.

Then SHARKS in SWEDEN

Will.

It's underrated.

Traveler

2010-06-14T22:34:00.004-05:00

When I was fifteen, I began a journey.

Priest of Dark Flight by Jos. A. Smith

The Priest has led me for the past 23 years.

In four days, my journey will be complete.

Death Wish

2010-06-11T14:35:00.002-05:00

Maybe if I put enough non-dairy creamer in my morning coffee, I too will become highly flammable and blow up, as was demonstrated on Mythbusters.

Just a thought.

MDF 2010 - Addendum

2010-06-06T16:16:00.002-05:00

I wrote the last three blogs while semi-delirious from a 100ºF fever so forgive me for leaving out this most important observation about Pestilence's set.

I mentioned in Day Two's blog about Possessed's drummer utilizing the roto toms on the main stage kit to great effect. What I forgot to say was how excited those three little transparent drums had me for Pestilence's set. "Consuming Impluse" will always be, in my opinion, the best utilization of roto toms in all of death metal. Ever. Never to be surpassed.

Pestilence then played the side stage, on a kit which had no roto toms.

That's like mashed potatoes without butter.

Harumph.

MDF Day Three - Skin Cancer 1 Metal 0

2010-06-05T17:30:00.004-05:00

Woke up to a blissfully quiet neighborhood on Sunday morning and absolutely no desire to eat. My delicious Paper Moon orzo pasta with fresh mozerella/sun dried tomatoes followed by a giant deep dish apple pie dessert was still onboard. We forced down some breakfast, knowing our next meal would not be until 11pm or so.

Brutally hot. Melanoma definitely was going to win the day.

We hooked up with the Pestilence crew as Jeff would be leaving with them to work the tour. While Jeff oriented with the band on tech details, I enjoyed the cool dimness of the rear bar. I emerged for a short time to check out Sinister, but despite three coats of spray-on sunscreen, I felt at risk standing out in the solar brutality. The combination of sweat, dirt, sunscreen and sun had my forehead prickling as my clogged, irritated pores went into overdrive. By evening, I knew I'd be sporting a serious case of acne.

At least it would be dark by then.

Necrophobic was up. I made a half hearted attempt to watch from the shady bottom of the hill. All I could see were shoulder blades and lighting truss. Backing up, the Swedes slowly came into view. The best spot for viewing was fully in the sun. My scalp (which I had sprayed with sunscreen), began to beg for mercy. Sweat made a continuous rosary of warm beads down my back, running between my shoulderblades and into the waistband of my pants. Necrophobic played their melodic riffs, made evil faces, and looked just a bit silly striking rock n' roll poses in their elaborate spiked outfits and eye black. Another band best suited for darkness. It must have been a difficult set for them; performing in the sun is never easy, performing in the sun dressed in non-breathable, heavy clothing is merciless torture. Kudos, Necrophobic.

I made it through one song.

Huddling under a beer tent, I was soon joined by good friends Tanya, Nick, Doug and Jake. We stood at varying angles to maximize shade exposure. I was past the point of caring if I looked pathetic; I just wanted to stay out of the hell orb's range. Necrophobic noodled and posed on at the top of the hill.

Eyehategod was another point of interest that afternoon. A huge crowd had gathered to partake in the NOLA anti-establishment madness. Last time I saw Mike IX Williams, he was threatening to cave in a hipster's head with his micrphone stand. I'd also been in range. I'm not stupid; I'd beaten a hasty retreat to Brian Patton's side of the stage where falling ashes from Brian's omnipresent Marlboro were the only risk. EHG's MDF performance would be less intimate, similar to Possessed's set. And similarly for me, I beat a hasty retreat to a nice shady tree, where I ran into my friend Ron from Massachusetts. While Patton and Bower sludged through blues progressions and Mike shrieked with inarticulate fury, I proceeded to talk non stop like a drunk person - slurring, unable to think of words, retarded from heat and fatigue.

Hilarious. I think.

Ron and I decided to brave the sunny gauntlet of blacktop, heading to the side stage for Pestilence. We found a spot that was not only in the shade but flat. Ryan and Evan may want to rethink the Top O The Hill Stage concept for MDF 2011... placing the stage at the bottom of the hill might be better. Everyone can stand on the hill and look down. Yes, I know it complicates the backstage situation for the artists - what about renting a commercial construction site trailer with a couple window-mounted AC units as a dressing room/storage area?

Enough, I'm here to write about my experience, not project manage MDF.

Pestilence hit the stage with force. I'm not familiar with any of their music after "Consuming Impulse" - yes, I'm an unaologetic MVD adherent. I was interested in watching the Patricks play some of the older material, much of which I've been learning on guitar, in hopes of getting clues on how to play some riffs. I'll admit, I was a bit disappointed. Mamelli and Co. have a different take on the older material - it's chunkier, a little slower, and in the case of "Dehyrated," quite reworked. The binary purist in me threw a tantrum while the younger kids moshed and crowd-surfed. To my right, a fellow old school thrasher did an abrupt about-face and marched away. Guess it wasn't what he wanted, either.

It was a solid set. Jeroen Paul Thesseling played calculus problems on his beautiful, custom fretless bass. The guy is so good I just want to cut off both my hands and never look at a guitar again. Yuma Van Eekelen kept a steady double-bass roar throughout. The shaven-headed Patricks sawed at their guitars. Mamelli punctuated the end of most songs with "Yesssssss!" It was good, it was fun; just not quite what I wanted.

The rest of the evening was a blur of frenzied, last chance socialization. The final fest day is always bittersweet; it may be years before friends meet again. Entombed took the main stage and started jamming. That's all I can call it. Kell from Diabolic/Pessimist and I had a good chat - it's been 10 years since we've seen each other. At some point I realized Entombed was actually playing "Left Hand Path" - it was barely recognizable. Ugh, not like the old days, that's for sure.

The final hours of MDF were spent again at Paper Moon, the last gorge of the weekend. It was time to begin the transition back to the other world. I boarded my plane the next afternoon solemn, exhausted, satiated.

Next adventure is August - Jalometalli Fest in Oulu, Finland then a week in Norrköping, Sweden where I will meet wolves in person and swim with 5 sharks. The new countdown begins!

MDF Day Two - Uphill Battle

2010-06-04T14:00:00.003-05:00

Saturday dawned with the sound of multiple revving lawn mowers at 9am.

Those of you familiar with Baltimore know that it is a city quite free of grass. The row house format precludes lawns; most neighborhoods have a few small "pocket parks" as they are called - tiny oases of vegetation in a primarily brick and blacktop world.

Except for my father-in-law's house.

Apparently, the 'rents live next to the most carefully manicured piece of lawn in all of Baltimore. Promptly at 9am, the familiar roar of a 2 stroke engine yanked me out of a dream involving Destroyer 666 and a large piece of pie. I wish I could remember the details of said dream but they were wiped clean by fury when a second mower started up.

"Jesus f'ing christ, noooooooooo," I thought. Why why why am I hearing lawn care in BALTIMORE at 9am!? Is this how all my bad deeds come back on me? I resisted the urge to get up and look out the window - what would that help? It would only confirm the presence of the mowers and serve to wake me up more.

The roaring ebbed in volume and I relaxed, drifting back to KK and that mysterious pie. How big could that damn patch of grass be? They'll be done in 10 minutes.

Rawr-rrrrrr-rawrwrarwrarwrar - reaaaaaahhhhh - CLANG!

9:15am. Okay, don't acknowledge your impotent fury, or else you'll be up for good. They must be nearly done. Zzzzz....

Wrong.

I have a theory that the actual mowers being used were around 3-6 inches in diameter and meant to cut each individual blade of grass separately. Despite their tiny size, said mowers were equipped with a 5 HP engine generating minimum 115 db. Each and every rock and stick which could make a bang, clang or snap was mowed over with great care and attention.

At 10:35am it was finally quiet again, and I was ready to murder the world.

Welcome to MDF Day Two.

Lunch was at a nice cafe out in Hamden. I think I had a burger. Not sure. I honestly can't remember because prior to our meals arriving, I noticed the mouth of my Diet Dr. Brown's Cream Soda was not quite aligned with the logo on the side of the can. This misalignment began to cause both vertigo and anxiety. I became quietly obsessed with cataloging the alignment of can mouths/logos on the other Dr. Brown's soda present not only at our table but at other tables. Was it just my can? No, they're all like that. The world felt like it was tilting sideways.

I'm a mess, I know.

We arrived at the Fest around 4pm, just in time for the Sadistic Intent/Possessed combined set. The sun was whorish, glaring in our collective eyes. UV rays pelted down with infernal fury. My choices were to share the sliver of shade at the front of the stage with 200 overheated, sweaty bodies or bake in the sun but have some personal space. I chose personal space. A crust punk girl with no bra appeared next to me, wafting BO and dirty dreadlock mank. Personal space fail.

Sadistic Intent only played three songs, which was a shame. Exuberant performers, they cut a great visual with their coordinated black guitars, hair, shirts and leather pants accented by bullet belts and spiked guitar straps. It really added to the experience. The PA was also dialed in more, so the sound was comprehensible. Jeff Beccera joined them shortly, morphing the band into death metal masters, Possessed. Beccera was clearly in a better place than he was last time I'd seen him (Austin 2008). That show had been terrifying. Beccera had been in self-destruct mode. Rail thin, burning with the most poignant self-hate I'd ever seen, he'd spent the show hammering the crowd with full water bottles and generally being awful. At the end, he'd pitched himself and his wheelchair into the crowd, landing face down in the shape of a swastika. Oooof.

This was a much better show. Beccera's howl was in fine form and he was clearly enjoying the gig. Maybe a big smile isn't all that metal, but I was glad to see the guy having fun. He's had a hard road. Dude's in a goddamn wheelchair forever, yet he's still performing. Proves that you pretty much can't keep a metal head down unless you kill him/her.

"Hey you guys all look thirsty. You need some water!" I thought for sure the violent flinging of bottles would begin after that but no, this performance was all about the music.

Emilio Marquez is a ridiculously good drummer who made fantastic use of the three roto toms on the kit. I love roto toms. Boodoolee-boodoolee-boo!

It was goddamned insufferably humid and hot. I decided to time the pit. Results were 40 seconds max pit time, broken down thusly:

0-20 seconds: full participation
20-30 seconds: fatties sidelined, maybe 15 guys still moshing
30-40 seconds: 3 extremely fit kids under 20 years of age

Pits ain't like they used to be, that's for sure. Maybe that's a good thing since I'm old.

Some chick appeared from the sky and landed on my head during one of the last Possessed songs. I had to grab my hair and run forward a few steps to keep it from being ripped entirely from my scalp. Last I saw of her was her sizeable ass sinking like a baby blue iceberg into the crowd by the rail.

When Possessed was finished, it was time to hide in the shade. Everyone else had the same idea; metalheads reclined like lions on the grass, satiated from their kill of metal and beer.

Next band: Melechesh. Very mesmerizing, cool Middle Eastern melodies. The sun drove me away from the stage after about ten minutes. In the back, it was enjoyable to listen and just people watch. Highlight was an "I totally missed the point of the metal patch vest" - dude sailed by wearing a huge bald eagle backpatch underscored by a Budwiser patch, almost no metal patches. Very 80s county fair. Eagles and beer are pretty metal, but it still made me laugh.

I found Ross from Immolation over by the beer tent. Ignoring the sour smell of spilt beer and vomit, we had a delightful conversation about WWII and what books we'd recently read. Had a laugh over my struggle to get through Anne Applebaum's "The Gulag" - a 1000 page, 8 point font tome I've been working on for over a year now. Expressed concern and doubt over Ron Howard's ability to bring "The Dark Tower" to life on screen. There was particular dubiousness around the television series aspect of the project. Time will tell.

Watain rolled in right about then, ashen-faced and lank. The conversation went like this:

Me: "Heeeey!"
E Watain: "Ugh."
Me: "Did you have a bad night?"
E Watain: "There was no night."
P Watain: "I want to cry."

And off they went.

Then it was time for Asphyx. Four words:

"Seventy Minute Uphill Pit"

Not as amazing as last year due to technical problems, but still excellent. Totally pro under pressure. Alwin nearly played without a strap; Martin saved him moments before the set was to begin. Paul windmilled at a furious rate despite a pedal situation which reduced his guitar tone to a flat clang. Martin was just Martin - awesome even when motionless and silent. Metal's own wendigo. Bob drove it solid and even from the rear. People lost their shit. The kid in front of me hadn't yet been born when "The Rack" came out yet he knew all the words. People fell on my head. Awesome.

The night ended with a fantastic set from Autopsy. Great ambiance, great sound. They nailed it. We collected Ross, Shellie, Tanya, Ashmedi from Melechesh and our good friends Doug, Nick and Jake then headed for gluttony at the Paper Moon Diner. Brilliant conversation followed, focusing on the following subjects:

Price of soda overseas
Thankless small size of European water glasses
Difficulty getting more than 1 ice cube in Germany
Bootleg ketchup
Hats on cats
Retarded Cat
Terrance and Phillip tour prank
Bob Vigna the vampire
Food envy
How the entire Paper Moon menu is on fire with awesomeness

I'll leave you with "Retarded Cat" which Ross has apparently watched 1000 of the 311K times it's been viewed.

MDF Day One - Dialing It In

2010-06-03T21:32:00.003-05:00

From the start, MDF 2010 was going to be hard pressed to live up to the glories of MDF 2009. The lineup was great but almost every band I wanted to see I'd seen before. I was amped for Asphyx's return and quite curious about Pestilence. The 1990 Pestilence and Death tour cancelled its Rochester, NY date. There was much tearing of hair and lamentation of women (namely, myself) over that.

Friday was a slow start. We rolled off the 'rents sleeper sofa around 11am then headed to Miss Shirley's to begin the gorging. For those of you not familiar with Miss Shirleys, you need to go there next time you're in Baltimore. The food is truly mind-blowing.

Fat to the point of vomit, we rolled up the street, wedged ourselves into the 'rent's Mini-Cooper and were off to buy sunscreen.

Back at the house, we lolled about in our gluttony. I made the mistake of logging into to work and discovered a disaster. I immediately started sucking down Diet Mountain Dew and hogging Utz potato chips while setting down to fix the issue. Around 5pm, I slammed the laptop shut and put the normal world away - we headed downtown to the real world, our world, the metal world.

The line was long, long, long, but mercifully out of the sun. Ten people ahead of us was the excited guy from last year who clobbered me during the Absu set. I ruminated on the irony that the first person I recognize isn't a friend but someone I want to avoid.

It was past the time when Nazxul's set was supposed to start but no booming metal came from the outside stage. I was hoping not to miss them; I enjoyed their unique brand of black metal with 1995's "Totem." Slowly, the line picked up speed. A few folks chatted with us, helping pass the time.

As we got to the security checkpoint, P from Watain materialized from the shade. Ah... the horde is here! A quick greeting then I hurried inside, not wanting to invoke the wrath of the very large gentleman taking tickets. P was whisked away by either fans or manager so we headed to the front stage for Nazxul.

Black metal in the daytime is never cool. I'm sorry, it's just not a genre that should happen when the sun is up. It makes the performers look too human, too real. Nazxul did their best and occasionally locked in on some cool atmosphere but the PA wasn't making it. I happened to be standing at a perfect destructive interference intersection of low frequency sound waves which reduced the music to a rhythmic pulse. My overall impressions were:

1. The vocalist's coat is red and he reminds me of an 80s Lars Ulrich wearing corpsepaint
2. That riff looks cool but I can't hear it
3. The vocalist's coat is RED
4. Destructive interference sounds like OM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM
3. THE VOCALIST'S COAT IS REALLY RED!!!!!

After Nazxul, it was socialization time. We caught up with many folks: Asphyx, our Texas brethren, an old friend from my past life up north. There was a cursory vendor check. I conducted bathroom and water cooler recon. The weather was fairly cool. It was fun to hang outside and just chat.

Watain was the next highlight. Inside the Sonar, it was sweltering. It was also full of hipsters with angled haircuts. I wiggled through the crowd, found a spot near a fan and gloried in the AC. Johann, Watain's technician, was lighting candles and incense on stage. Soon, the air was filled with the smell of fresh screenprinting ink, mildew, incense and an increasing aroma of drunken humans.

When the Swedish horde hit the stage, it was bedlam. I went from approximately 11 rows away from the stage to 3 rows in about 2 songs. The sound was raw, rough, clanging. People were pushing like their lives depended on getting close to the grue-covered band. I'm always impressed by the visual experience Watain provides - they are a package from stem to stern. Not a centimeter of them is not covered with either blood, corpsepaint, leather, chains or decaying tatters. They are complete. Whole. Pure in so many ways.

Missing a member, E had to play guitar and sing, something he did with fortitude even though I could tell he was struggling. E Watain is a true practitioner of Agile methodology in music - his role in the band is complex: he is the vocalist, but he can also be the bassist, the guitarist or even the drummer, plus sing at the same time through all of it. I have endless admiration for his talents.

It was insane in the crowd. Just retarded. I'm not sure how many fans actually understand Watain is wholly dedicated to the celebration of Satanism and evil - if they did, I don't think they'd be hopping up and down. A Watain show is like the blackest of masses where violence and evil are unleashed visually, physically and aurally. This felt more like - I don't know - a Skeletonwitch show. Not enough revenence, too much retardation. To keep my hair from being torn from the roots, I pulled it in front and held it under my chin: the Bo-Peep, as I call it. Mashed against the girl in front of me, I tried to be a decent crowd member and not fall too much on top or her or catch my fingers in her pink-streaked hair on accident. A huge, wet, mushy body crashed down on me and I slammed into her, helpless to hold back. She shot me an angry, fuck-off look and slammed back into me. I noticed her shirt was from the Rockstar Mayhem Fest. After that, I didn't care if I ripped her stupid pink hair out by the roots. She clearly didn't understand that getting mashed is part of being up front. When she started texting during "Sworn to the Dark," I got mad. Why are you here, huh? 'Cause it's "cool"? "OMG im at watain LOL!" What, really, did she know of the truth of the Swedish horde?

I have mixed feelings about Watain's success. I'm glad they are reaching a lot of people but the black metal elitist in me wants it to stay small, to not grow from 2003 and Casus Luciferi. I don't want to see guys in tweed hats screaming "Sworn to the Dark!" I don't want to see guys in tweed hats at any metal shows. I want to see them up on crosses, bleeding... tied there with their own white belts while someone pours fire ants over their writhing bodies.

I guess if you own a tweed hat, you'll need to be hitting command-W right about now.

MDF 2010 wasn't one of Watain's best shows but they soldiered through it and emerged triumphant.

The air outside the Sonar felt arctic compared to the fetid jungle inside. I spent some quality time washing my hands multiple times in the bathroom. I'm not a germophobe, but that was a bit much. Friends displayed their blood-splattered faces. Watain emerged, I greeted E but the look on his face told me to stay away. He was near voiceless, clearly decompressing from the set. I gave him space, but that was quickly taken by anxious, exuberant fans.

DRI was next. Tired from Watain, I did not dare brave the enormous pit. The band kicked it off fast with "Who am I? DRI!" and the moshing spun up in RPMs. Fun fun fun - I enjoyed them back in the day and they still bring the same great energy 20 years later. Then the guitar rig ate it and my fatigue sat down on me hard.

An unexpected appearance of one of the Immolation camp ended the night with cheer. It just doesn't seem a proper fest without quality time with either Ross or Bob. Promising a midnight gorge at Paper Moon Diner Saturday night, we headed out to discover a dearth a taxis. Hanging about in Baltimore at night is not... the best idea. The police were anxious to shoo us away from the corners - we eventually found a taxi and were home safe. Showers, a couple cookies and Gatorade then horizontal bliss.

Calves and feet throbbing to the same rhythm of Nazxul's set (om nom nom nom nom nom nom), I allowed myself to be sworn to the dark.

Sick and Tired

2010-06-03T14:22:00.003-05:00

Sick and hateful today.

Millennial Buries Herself In Debt, Looks to Deflect Responsibility

When I went to college, I fully understood it was my responsibility to manage how much debt I took on. I went to an expensive college with a tuition of about $17K a year (remember, it was 1990). Yes, I had scholarships and some grants, but when I marched out 4 years later, I owed something like $21K. The size of that number terrified me.

I busted my ass to pay those loans off as soon as I graduated. Took me 3.5 years and then I was free.

The idiot and her mother in the article seem to think it was SOMEONE ELSE'S responsibility to tell them when to stop borrowing money. They think the school should have told them they probably couldn't afford it. They think the bank should have said, "You need to stop borrowing." They seem to think that deferring this monstrous $100K Sword of Damocles will magically make a solution appear.

When the fuck was it their responsibility to sit their asses down with a pencil and a pad and add up all those loans? Last time I checked, you had to know how to add to get into NYU.

I am so endlessly sick of the deflection of responsibility when things get hard in American society. I see it on TV, at work, when I'm out and about. It makes me insanely angry, especially when people bend over backwards to help these blindered douchebags still be successful.

Failure isn't fatal, people. Scary and upsetting, yes. Fatal, no. Would that it were, the world would have about 4.5 billion less people.

Can't we bring back the good old days where if you fucked up you had to live with it like a big red letter sewn to your shirt? In the living with your fuck up, and in the undoing of it, in the changing of your ways and experience of sacrifice, you emerged braver, wiser and more mature?

Why is that so scary?

Think on it, peeps.

Humor in Illness

2010-06-03T11:58:00.003-05:00

I've found someone who actually gets sicker than I do. Read her blog here.

Yeah, I'm sick. Somebody at MDF had a sniffle and now I'm drowning in a sea of green hork and soggy Kleenex. Thank you, Kmart special immune system. This is what happens when your mother didn't breastfeed and both your jobless, homebound parents smoked a total of 80 cigarettes a day AND your house was heated with a smoke-belching woodburning stove.

I'll get my MDF blogs posted over the weekend, once I finish dying.

Loss

2010-05-27T17:54:00.002-05:00

The last ten days been a very reflective and somber time for the metal community. Dio's passing has been heavy on our collective hearts and mind. I've been walking around in a fog, sniffling when Dio's voice floats over my iTunes.The birds sing and I ask them, "How can you sing when Dio's great voice is silenced?" I ask myself, "Why bother? What does any of it matter now that he's gone?"

Melodramatic? Maybe. If you think so, you probably weren't a Dio fan.

I was eleven when I first encountered Dio. It was a typical Friday night - my mother ensconced in her chair at the front of the living room, watching the TV from a 135º angle, as far away from my father as possible. Some shiity 80s show was blaring so my gunfire-deafened father could hear it. No talking, just the stink of hatred and cigarette smoke heavy the air. I was in my room, my mother's little black radio jammed to my ear, trying to listen to a rock and metal show.

"When there's lightning, you know it always brings me down!" rang out tinnily in my ear.

What's this? Enraptured, goosebumped, I listened closer.

"I cry out for magic..." This man knows! I need magic because it protects me from the misery that is my home, yes, this song is magical....

The guitar struck a minor chord and I shivered deeply. "No sign of the morning coming, you've been left on your own like a rainbow in the dark."

I closed my eyes, going to that dark.

"Do your demons, do they ever let you go?" Why yes, mystery singer - I know about demons, the demons of poverty and fear and parental rage. Alone in my tiny room, I was comforted by the growling guitars and this golden voice, these dualistic, contradictory lyrics and the mystery they held.

Shortly after, paging through a copy of Hit Parader, I happened on a long article about a man named Ronnie James Dio. I quickly realized this was the man I'd heard on the radio. The photo showed a curly-haired, older fellow wearing an Egyptian collar, He was throwing the devil horns. In his eye, a knowing yet mysterious gleam promised: I have seen the other worlds - listen to my songs and perhaps you too will see them. The article itself was full of enigmatic statements, most notably Dio stating: "I have a feeling I will die soon."

That statement has always been paired with him in my mind. Perhaps it was a mis-quote, but regardless, it stuck as something unknowable. I remember thinking about it in '08 as I stood watching Heaven and Hell onstage in San Antonio. Dio was 10 rows away, pouring his gigantic soul into the microphone. Tiny, bird-frail, he paced the stage, his presence enormous as a dragon. My metal grandfather, I thought, little shiny old man full of secrets and magic and, at that time, eternal life. The article came to mind and I remember smiling, thinking, "You didn't die soon, after all, Dio."

Well, as it turns out, he did die soon. Way too soon. We all could have used another twenty years of Dio to enchant and confuse us with lyrics about fools and rainbows and when echoes don't answer and sailing away to somewhere magic. What's becoming of me? Look out!

Mysteries, always with Dio. Now he is truly mystery.

And in the end, I know it's worth it to bother... because music is magic, and we carry it with us always.

Hail Dio.

Memorial Service for Ronnie James Dio

Commence Götterdämerung

2010-05-16T20:32:00.002-05:00

Ronnie James Dio
July 10, 1942 – May 16, 2010

Generational

2010-05-12T17:20:00.003-05:00

One generation makes either a huge difference or none at all.

Back when I was first cutting my teeth on extreme metal, there was no Internet, no blogging, no tweeting, twatting, mspacing or yourfacing. Twenty years ago, you got your news from Mark "Psycho" Abrams of the Buff State Metal Show, zines and rags like Kerrang from Home of the Hits on Elmwood, show flyers and hearsay passed along from your friend who knows this guy who knows Dennis from Mayhemisis who said Dark Angel was going on tour this year.

Twenty years ago, I was 18 and thought I was going to be a bad ass matte painter for science fiction and fantasy movies. I spent my days being bored in school, except for art class and literature. My evenings were homework, playing guitar, hanging with my boyfriend and banging my head to my leaked copy of Cannibal Corpse's Eaten Back to Life. There was no obesity epidemic, no worries of terrorism, no thoughts of "Will Social Security be there for me when I need it?"

Life was simple: eat, sleep, school, boyfriend, metal - particularly Cannibal Corpse.

Fast forward to the very different future: almost 40, on my couch, drinking a breakfast of Metamucil so the mail keeps moving, my right hip and leg on fire from my old acetabular fracture. A solid-body laptop is balanced on my knees and I'm dialed into a conference call about credit card project I'm managing. I'm distracted because my Airport base station seems to have gone offline after delivering 47 emails into my work inbox which I now cannot answer due to lack of Interwebz. Today, I will work remotely from home via VPN, read news online, contemplate the distribution of funds in my retirement plan, update my myspace status about what I did last night, receive multiple calls on my touch screen cell phone, listen to metal on my iTunes.

Twenty years has brought landmark changes to the way we live.

Through it all, metal has endured. Particularly Cannibal Corpse.

I found myself at Emo's last night waiting for Corpse to take the stage. Sweating like mad, mashed in between two members of the obesity epidemic, I noticed at least 85% of the front row had not been born when Eaten Back to Life was released. There were sideways ball caps, emo haircuts, striped shirts, volcanic acne and skinny adolescent girls with bullrings in their noses. I remember a day when shows were populated exclusively by 150 shaggy guys in flannels, torn jeans and hi top sneakers and 6 chicks, 4 of whom would stand in the rear of the club, smoking. Nobody had a pierced anything, aside from ears. Bob Rusay's eyebrow piercing both creeped me out and fascinated me because it seemed so EXTREME. People would scream "Jack is not nice!" at Jack Owen. Corpse would finish their set with "Louie Louie". No one ever had written a song titled "Fucked with a Knife." All Cannibal wanted to do was go on a real tour and my main goal in life was to scream "MAGGOTS!" loudly enough to be heard by Chris Barnes.

How many things have come to pass in twenty years, and yet, it's still the same. Last night's crowd was mostly ova and sperm when Chris Barnes was grunting about a father's shoulders becoming part of the dash, his eyeballs ejected his sight unaffected he saw his own organs collapse... but they were there to pit and bang and scream.

What else to say? I was on the same side of the stage last night as I was back in the day, disheveled, smeared makeup racooning my eyes, 18 again. No thoughts of my impending arthritis, my many project responsibilities, my floundering 401(k). Alex spotted me, his eyes widened in greeting and a smile cracked his face - twenty years later and here I still am, screaming "MAGGOTS!"

Oh Cannibal, my Cannibal... how proud I am of them all.

The continuum of metal never fails to exhilarate and thrill me. On and on it goes. We get older but we still bring it. We grow wiser but we're still kids at heart. We have kids and bring them up to love the intense, brutal music that so ignites our passions. We keep the faith, protect the flame. Through the years, despite our differences in fashion, we are still of one heart: misfits, misanthropes, dark minds driven by drop tuning and able to scream "Make Them Suffer!" yet kiss our kids gently as we tuck them in.

One last thought: George CorpseGrinder is BrundleFly in disguise, ticking and twitching during his monologues. When he sprouts a big hairy multijointed leg while windmilling and then pukes up acid on some emo fool in the front row, I will not be surprised in the least.

A Laugh for Thursday

2010-04-01T18:32:00.004-05:00

My life has been hell lately, due to work. I got this today in my email and it made me bust out laughing. Maybe you too need a pick up. If so, enjoy!

These are from a book called "Disorder in the American Courts." These are word for word accounts, recorded and now published by court reporters who had the torment of staying calm while these exchanges were taking place.

ATTORNEY: Are you sexually active?

WITNESS: No, I just lie there.

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all?

WITNESS: Yes.

ATTORNEY: And in what ways does it affect your memory?

WITNESS: I forget.

ATTORNEY: You forget? Can you give us an example of something you forgot?

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Do you know if your daughter has ever been involved in voodoo?

WITNESS: We both do.

ATTORNEY: Voodoo?

WITNESS: We do.

ATTORNEY: You do?

WITNESS: Yes, voodoo.

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Now doctor, "isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it until the next morning?"

WITNESS: Did you actually pass the bar exam?
_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: The youngest son, the twenty-year-old, how old is he?

WITNESS: He's twenty, much like your IQ.

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Were you present when your picture was taken?

WITNESS: Are you shitting me?

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th?

WITNESS: Yes.

ATTORNEY: And what were you doing at that time?

WITNESS: Getting laid
_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: She had three children, right?

WITNESS: Yes.

ATTORNEY: How many were boys?

WITNESS: None.

ATTORNEY: Were there any girls?

WITNESS: Your Honor, I think I need a different attorney. Can I get a new attorney?

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: How was your first marriage terminated?

WITNESS: By death.

ATTORNEY: And by whose death was it terminated?

WITNESS: Take a guess.

_________________________________________

ATTORNEY: Can you describe the individual?

WITNESS: He was about 20, medium height, and had a beard.

ATTORNEY: Was this a male or a female?

WITNESS: Unless the Circus was in town I'm going with male.

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Doctor, how many of your autopsies have you performed on dead people?

WITNESS: All of them. The live ones put up too much of a fight.

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: ALL your responses MUST be oral, OK?

What school did you go to?

WITNESS: Oral.

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?

WITNESS: The autopsy started around 8:30 p.m.

ATTORNEY: And, Mr. Denton was dead at the time?

WITNESS: If not, he was by the time I finished.

_______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Are you qualified to give a urine sample?

WITNESS: Are you qualified to ask that question?
_______________________________________

And the best for last:

ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?

WITNESS: No.

ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?

WITNESS: No.

ATTORNEY: Did you check for breathing?

WITNESS: No.

ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?

WITNESS: No.

ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?

WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.

ATTORNEY: I see, but could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?

WITNESS: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law.

Fuck You-nited

2010-03-28T15:08:00.002-05:00

I've flown on a lot of planes but up until last week, I'd never missed a flight and had to rebook on another airline because I couldn't wait on standby.

My lasting impression on the experience:
FUCK YOU, UNITED.

I tend to fly three airlines: Continental, American and Southwest. Continental I like best, even though I refer to it as Crap-tinental. Their planes are shiny and new, their staff pleasant and helpful. American - I have beaucoup frequent flyer miles there, so I like to keep that status stable. They are fairly decent and I've never had a huge problem with them. Southwest - great for solo travel, charming staff, decent prices as long as you're mentally prepared for the unpleasant cattle call nature of boarding.

And then there's United.

I haven't flown United in about 10 years. It wasn't because of anything bad - I just started getting better deals on other airlines. This past week I had to go to Cali for a week-long summit. My colleague and I selected a United flight that allowed us to leave on Monday morning and arrive in time for our summit's start, rather than having to fly out Sunday afternoon. Price was very good. Return trip was also nice timing - arrival 8pm Friday night. All in all, a decent proposition.

Monday morning 22 March rolled around. Flight was at 6:55am. I rolled out of bed at 5am, left the house at 5:20, and was walking into the airport at 5:45am. One hour ten minutes early. Plenty of time! WRONG!

The week previous was Austin's annual Cluster-by-Clusterfuck Music Festival - more commonly known as SXSW, South by SouthWest. I've flown out on the Monday after CXCF before - lines were longish but not overly bad. This year was different.

Thousands of scruffy, bearded hipsters were queued up in the lobby, looking hungover from a week of binge drinking and coke-snorting. Lines snaked back and forth, clogging flow and creating a major safety hazard. Guitars were piled everywhere. Security wore expressions of pinched disgust and hatred. The TSA agents broadcast an air of "Oh no you diuhnt!"

After standing in line for an hour, I was almost to the security checkpoint. Chances were 50/50 I'd make my flight. Odds dropped to zero when the 20-something security agent threw her hands up in the air and announced, "Ugh! All you people shoulda gots here earlier! I'm goin' on break, see ya'll!" Off she trotted, leaving one hapless man responsible for the Priority line and two regular lines.

Yep, I was missing my flight for sure.

Turned out, I missed it by 2 minutes. So close. United, sporting their omnipresent "on time departure" boner, pushed Flight 827 back from the gate promptly at 6:55am, leaving 15 people behind. The travelers, mostly business folk, were enraged. The unconcerned gate attendant put me on standby for a flight to Denver - a flight which had approx. 20 other folks already on standby. If I were to make the Denver flight, I'd be on standby to the San Fran flight. I have zero FF miles on United; my chances of hitting those standby flights were about ZERO. A night in an airport loomed very real. Missing my work summit loomed even more real.

I thanked the agent for the standby (she stared at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears), took my boarding pass and marched around the corner to Jet Blue, where I promptly bought a one way ticket to SFO. Long and short, I arrived in SFO a mere hour later than my previous schedule and made it to my meeting on time.

Fast forward to Friday. Trying to check in online for my United return flight - no dice. Started to get a bad feeling. Called my company's travel agent, had them check my reservation - all looked in order. Called United to check the same thing - no ma'am, everything is fine, have a nice trip today. Get to the airport, try to use the kiosk - please see an agent due to itinerary changes.

Uh-oh.

Waited in line almost 40 minutes. When I was finally "helped", the woman went from cheery to stone bitch as soon as she discovered... UNITED HAD CANCELLED MY TICKET.

Maybe the rest of you knew this would happen. Having never missed a flight before, I didn't. Having called both my agent AND United, I was taken a little by surprise.

"Oh my," I said, working to sound pleasant, "No one told me that. That is a real problem."

"There's nothing I can do to help you," was the agent's curt reply.

"Please help make this not be a terrible customer service experience today," I countered. I looked her square in the eyes and smiled by best smile. "I was not informed my ticket would be cancelled. What can we do?"

She launched. "Well you should have called United to let them know about missing your flight - maybe that would have made a difference - as it is, your ticket is cancelled, there's no leg assigned - you have a reservation in the system but there's nothing tied to it. I can't do anything."

I looked at her name tag. "Linda," I said. "I'll remember that if it happens again. Thanks for the information. But you know, I need your help today in getting home. Please help me have a decent day."

Linda's stony "fuck you, go away, this is all your fault, idiot" expression wavered. Not by much, but enough. She stayed steely and my "I know you're probably a grandma who loves her grandkids" smile stayed firm. A second ticked by. She picked up the phone.

MAGICALLY - with the transfer of $140 from my credit card to United's coffers, I was able to get a ticket on the SAME PLANE for THE SAME SEAT I ALREADY HAD RESERVED.

MAGICAL. Isn't it? Like fucking David Copperfield pulling tigers out of his pants. Just magical.

So, United Airlines, please go fuck yourself. Lose the attitude. No one cares you're still thoroughly butt-sore from being Al-Qaida's airline of choice on 9/11. Yes indeed, you screwed up that day and the entire industry has been paying for it in spades since. But come on. That was a long time ago and the terrorists have diversified to other airlines. Your planes smell. Your fares are overpriced. Your customer service should be renamed customer abuse. $125 for an overweight bag is insanity. Travelers do have a choice and believe you me, I think we're all choosing you only when we've exhausted options such as Southwest, Craptinental, Jet Blue, and strapping ourselves to several hundred migrating Canada geese.

Unless the geese are completely booked up, and there's no cloud of locusts I can leverage, I will never, EVER fly United again.

And neither should you.

To the Very Concerned Fan...

2010-02-23T11:37:00.003-06:00

...Who wants to see my python print spandex pants in action.

I'll have 'em on this Saturday at Hot Shots Billards in San Antonio.

If you miss 'em in person, it'll be Google image searches for you since it takes me years to post pictures from our shows. So be warned! Get yer ass there or MISS OUT.

Valet? No Way!

2010-01-20T16:09:00.005-06:00

As I get older, I've realized I'm becoming One of THOSE People. You know, the kind of person who:

1. Is socially awkward
2. Talks to themselves constantly while walking around
3. Breaks out in random song (usually a showtune) in the middle of public places, like the bread aisle
4. Laughs at other people's jokes (when I'm not supposed to be listening)
5. Tells internal jokes then laughs out loud, startling others.
6. Is frequently mistaken for an engineer based on speaking style (this is not something I enjoy!)
7. Will walk 10 miles in pouring rain uphill both ways in order to avoid parking a car with a valet.

For those of you long time blog readers, you're already familiar with Infin, my beloved 2005 G35 coupe, standard model, desert sand color, nothing special but god do I love it. I baby Infin, only driving it about 4000 miles a year. It has never been touched by a towel or rag containing anything remotely abrasive. The paint, while bearing a couple dings from rocks, is swirl free and still shines like glass. It's tires are perfectly inflated. The engine is perfectly maintained. I consider Infin my most expensive fashion accessory, like a Louis Vuitton purse or a pair of expensive shoes.

I do own a second car, however...

The Paf.

The Paf is my 112K mile bearing 1997 Nissan Pathfinder. It is a rolling shit heap. At some point it was gold, now it is a fine dirt color. I have not washed or vacuumed The Paf since March 2007 when 1349 smeared it with corpsepaint after using it as a parking lot dressing room before playing their brutal SXSW gig at Red 7. For six months, Ravn's dried loogie on the inside of the passenger door evoked memories of Mucilage glue (remember that stuff, kids? Smelled bad, messed up your desk, and was always crusty around the applicator like your little cousin's nostrils). After my husband repeatedly commented on how disgusting it was, I finally broke down and chiseled it off.

I have owned The Paf since 1999, back when I lived up North, so it's undercarriage is slowly rusting out. The windshield has been cracked since moving to Texas in 2000. While not sunburnt, the paint is chipped and scratched from numerous show load-ins and outs. The bumpers have vitiligo. The brakes make a horrifying, yet undefined, crunching noise that comes and goes and which my mechanic cannot hear, let alone fix. It smells of rancid beer and stale cigarette smoke, with undertones of spilled cedar mulch with a finish of gasoline fumes. It's my gig car, my junk hauler, my filthy band-on-tour transporter. It got me over my fear of driving and parallel parking. It drove me from Massachusetts to Texas, where I turned my life around and really started living. The Paf is my beater car and I have no idea what I'll do when it finally goes to the big dealership in the sky because nothing out there right now has the same blend of usability, medium size and trucky styling.

Anyway.

Given my near obsessive protective nature around Infin, it's no stretch of imagination as to why a valet will never park it. Never. Too many stories pass my ears of friends' souped up, fun cars being returned by a valet with stereo blasting and a few extra miles on the old odometer. However, with The Paf, you'd think I'd take perverse pleasure in presenting a white gloved valet with the keys to that filthy rolling dungheap, just to see their look of discomfort as they sit their immaculate trousers down on the stained, crumb-laden seat.

No way. My obsessive need to control my possessions extends even to The Paf.

So it was yesterday I found myself battling anxiety over valet parking as I drove to a class at The Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Austin. I was in The Paf, and honestly, dear readers, the thing is so fucking dirty it's becoming a public embarrassment. The inexcusable filth plus the relinquishing of control over my dear beloved garbagecar had me quite ratcheted up. Thoughts raced through my mind about finding parking somewhere WAY up Red River and walking it in should valet be my only option. Imaginary arguments with the valet exploded, were resolved, then happened from new angles as I sat in traffic. But... the side of me that isn't an anxious, overreacting freak was holding out hope that the hotel would not MANDATE valet parking and I would be able to deposit my rolling embarrassment next to a vehicle worth more than my yearly salary. Kind of like putting PigPen in with a bunch of freshly washed kids...

I pulled into the winding, congested drive. Old dowagers with canes and elbow-holding gentlemen doddered about. Gray gleaming Cadillac limos had the three valets' attention. I circled once, spotted an underground garage entrance with "Valet only" on the bar. Circled again. A tall valet, quite snappy in his long coat, gloves and white police-chief hat, hurried up. I noticed, with humor, that his snazzy golden scarf matched the gold trim on his coatsleeves.

"Uh, I'm taking a class? Where do I park?" My nasal northern accent comes out under stress. I was the epitome of elegance. My car farted.

Mr. Valet's face was carefully cheery but controlled. He surely noticed the drift of papers and dirty leaf bits filling Paf's interior. He smiled. He was about 25 years old if a day.

"In the underground garage, ma'am. I'll buzz you in and you can self park."

Awesome. The dreaded relinquishing of keys was not mandatory! After thanking the valet (verbally - he does not get any money for telling me where to go) I disappeared, a sneaky brown rat, into the garage. I'm sure all the elderly rich with their fur coats and hundred dollar blue rinses were relieved by my departure. I parked next to a black, loaded $60K+ SUV. The Paf hunkered, listing slightly to the left thanks to degrading shocks, wanting a cuddle with its neighbor. I could almost hear the black SUV muttering, "Uh, do you mind? I'm, uh, trying to have some dignity here."

Grinning, I left my car to devalue everything around it for next three hours.

The SUV was gone when I returned. My car sat alone. Shunned like a leper.

Just the way I like it.

But I really do think I'm going to wash it. Even lepers need a little love sometime.

Reading Recap 2009

2009-12-31T22:03:00.002-06:00

This year I promised myself I would read more books. I didn't read a ton, but at least I put away a few.

I attempted to read Melville's Moby Dick, since Norma loves it so. I got approximately 1/3 of the way through before I ran out of gas. I tried... but without a grade riding on it, I just could not force myself to keep turning the pages while Melville droned on and on and on and on and on and on and on... you get the point.

Since much of my 2009 reading came from a book list found while randomly browsing myspace, I'll provide a list of my own. Perhaps someone will get a few days or weeks of enjoyment out of these fine tomes which delighted me this year.

Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
A Rumour of War by Philip Caputo
The Road by Cormack McCarthy
Pet Sematary by Stephen King (third reading, always an awesome story)
The Devil's Rose by Brom
God's Demon by Wayne Barlowe
We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver
Blood Red Snow: The Memoirs of a German Soldier on the Eastern Front by Gunther K. Koschorrek
I Had Brain Surgery, What's Your Excuse by Suzy Becker

May 2010 bring me more time for books as well... I've got some killer Neal Stephenson and Diana Gabaldon to catch up on!

Many thanks to everyone who read my postings this year, despite their periodic nature. Talk to you in the new year!

Music Recap 2009

2009-12-29T07:43:00.003-06:00

Resumed playing guitar - check.
Wrote/recorded a couple new songs - check.
Played some pretty cool Drifter gigs - check.
Went to a hell of a lot of live shows - check.

All in all, it was a decent music year. I didn't do as much original work as I planned due to my ridiculous job, but I recorded the following with Bracaglia: Undertow, The Road, Faithless Warrior and Falling Star. Listen to them on my myspace. I also recorded the theme song for the now inactive Rocky Mountain Rage Hockey team with Chris from Poseidon's Anger. Next year my goal is to do at least an album's worth of new material. Now that I've blogged about it, I'll feel guilty and committed which increases my likelihood of achieving said goal.

2009 Show List
Jan 2 - Hexlust, Hod, Militia, Sad Wings at Rock Bottom Bar, San Antonio
Jan 3 - Suicide Solution, Love/Hate/Love, Capricorn USA, Drifter, Sad Wings at Red Eyed Fly/Hod at Room 710 (I was running back and forth)
Jan 15 - Outlaw Order at Red 7, Austin
Jan 18 - Manifestation at Red 7, Austin
Jan 24 - Amebix at Emos, Austin
Jan 30 - Ignitor, Course of Ruin at Emos, Austin
Feb 7 - Pasadena Napalm Division at 710/Sad Wings/Marshall Dylan at Red Eyed Fly (another running across the street multiple times night)
Feb 16 - Satyricon/Cradle of Filth at Scout Bar, San Antonio
Feb 21 - Drifter at Hannovers, Pflugerville
March 13 - Drifter, Sad Wings, Suicide Solution at Room 710, Austin
March 14 - Hod, Hexlust, Ex Mortis at Warhol, San Antonio
March 20 - Absu at Spiros, Austin
March 21 - Broken Teeth at Headhunters, Austin
March 28 - Hod CD release party, Room 710, Austin (Mala Suerte, Disfigured, HammerWhore)
April 3 - TMA (now Warbeast), Turbid North at Room 710, Austin
April 4 - Drifter at Reptilez, San Antonio
April 10 - Capricorn USA, Broken Teeth at Room 710, Austin
April 17 - Amon Amarth, Goatwhore, Skeletonwitch, Lazarus AD at White Rabbit, San Antonio
April 18 - Amon Amarth, Goatwhore, Skeletonwitch, Lazarus AD at Meridian, Houston
May 8 - Kreator, Exodus, Belphegor at Scout Bar, San Antonio
May 15 - Drifter, Suicide Solution at Dirty Dog, Austin
May 22, 23, 24 - Maryland Death Fest (Mayhem, Asphyx, Hail of Bullets, Immolation, Bolt Thrower, Absu, Abscess, Aura Noir, Destroyer 666)
May 27 - Mayhem, Cephalic Carnage, Withered, Cattle Decapitation at White Rabbit, San Antonio
June 6 - Hod, Blaspherian, Vore at Room 710, Austin
June 13 - Drifter, Silenced Within, Suicide Solution at Room 710, Austin
June 29 - Killa Maul at Headhunters, Austin
July 1 - Averse Sefira at Red 7, Austin
July 5 - Birth AD at Room 710, Austin
July 11 - Drifter, Adrenaline Factor, Whole Lotta Led at Red Eyed Fly, Austin
July 15 - Master, Goreaphobia, Disfigured at Room 710, Austin
July 24 - Suicidal summit attempt of Mt Washington in the pouring rain by Norma and Erika, New Hampshire (not a show but the climb was powered by metal!)
July 25 - Habitrail Williams, Goatwhore, Daath, SWWAATS, Abysmal Dawn at Webster Theater, Hartford, CT
Aug 1 - Drifter, Suicide Solution/Whole Lotta Led in Victoria, TX
Aug 6 - Habitrail Williams, Goatwhore, Daath, SWWAATS, Abysmal Dawn at Scout Bar, San Antonio
Aug 7 - Birth AD, Hod, Hexlust, Witchhaven, Butchered Saint at 1011, San Antonio
Aug 8 - Habitrail Williams, Goatwhore, SWWAATS, Abysmal Dawn at Red 7, Austin
Aug 28 - Broken Teeth, High Watt Crucifixers, Martyrhead at Emos, Austin
Aug 29 - Moxy, Broken Teeth, Drifter, Lionheart at Sunken Gardens, San Antonio then DROVE HOME FOR Hirax, Kill the Client in Austin
Sept 5 - Drifter and Sad Wings at Paul Green School of Rock, Austin
Sept 5 - Averse Sefira, Absu, Solitude Aeternus, Hod at Ridgelea Theater, Ft Worth
Sept 11 - Sad Wings, Judas Rising at Red Eyed Fly, Austin
Sept 18 - Iron Maiden vs Judas Priest - Paul Green School of Rock students, Red 7, Austin
Sept 26 - Dangerous Toys, Red Eyed Fly, Austin
Oct 3 - Ignitor at Encore Records, Austin
Oct 8 - Goatwhore, Warbringer at Red 7, Austin
Oct 9 - Ignitor, Militia, Black Tora at Red 7, Austin
Oct 17 - Pasadena Napalm Division at Red 7, Austin
Oct 24 - Hail of Bullets, Illdisposed, Surhim - Hangar 27, Antwerp Belgium
Oct 31 - Asphyx, Sodom, at Parktheatret, Oslo Norway
Nov 6 - Secrets of the Moon, Warehouse Music Venue, San Antonio
Nov 9 - Birth AD videoshoot and Birth AD show, Headhunters, Austin
Nov 16 - Belphegor, Eluvietie at Warehouse Music Venue, San Antonio
Nov 28 - Marduk, Averse Sefira, Nachtmystium, Mantic Ritual, Merrimack at Red 7, Austin
Nov 29 - Marduk at Ridgelea Theatre, Ft. Worth
Dec 5 - Dying Fetus, Faceless at Meridian, Houston

You Know You Need a New Job When...

2009-11-22T21:50:00.004-06:00

1. You haven't cleaned your house in so long that when you do, you get an asthma attack so bad it nearly sends you to the emergency room.
2. You're so used to sleeping only 3-4 hours at a stretch that you go to Europe and don't get jet lag traveling in EITHER direction.
3. You have a public breakdown in the middle of Gardermoen Airport in Oslo and start blubbering about how you "can't go back to that hell."
4. You miss seeing Goatwhore in Austin because to go would cause a fatal delay in your deliverables.

Yep, that's where I'm at.

I returned to a disaster at work. Before I left, I knew it was going to be bad when I returned. I worked every day of the vacation and even despite that, the situation was still worse than I could have imagined. This past Friday, we pulled a miracle out of our butts and finally all is well. My team worked very hard and put in extra effort. Me? I worked about 240 hours over the last three weeks. Missing Ben and the boys on Nov 12 when they came through with Municipal Waste was the last straw. I just can't do it any more. I'm not happy. I don't want to work 10-14 hours a day. I used to be excited by my job. I'm not any longer. It's just a thankless grind and for what? It's not like I'm saving lives.

So, it's time to make some changes. My life, for months now, has felt out of my control. For an anxious person, that is depressing and disturbing. One of the ways I deal with my constant anxiety is to control my living environment. I keep a clean and tidy house, not immaculate or psycho-neat, but everything has its place. I get stressed when things are strewn around.

My house has become a little box of dank, dusty chaos. My office was a white drift of papers, my bedroom a black drift of clothes. Shit was flung, piled, crammed everywhere, trod upon, mashed, folded, balled up. The floor had spots of god knows what on it that had been there for months. The dark green chair in my office where the cat sleeps was so infused with her hair that patches of it were completely WHITE. It's not like we've been living in a filth hole (the toilets are cleaned and my husband vacuums about once a week) but by my standards, it was out of control. Utterly and completely.

This weekend I cleaned my house for the first time in probably a year. I vacuumed an entire cat's worth of hair off the sofa. I scrubbed. I washed every dirty towel, every slipcover, every piece of fabric which had lain on my bedroom floor for more than an hour. I polished countertops and rediscovered the beautiful ruby flecks in the granite. I waxed and buffed every wooden surface and I could hear the wood crying out thanks as it drank in the moisture from the wax. I washed every dish, pot, pan and utensil in the kitchen.

To quote "Poltergeist": THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN.

Needless to say, I got so set off from dust I laid in bed last night until three 3am, breathing like Regan in "The Exorcist." Past experience told me it would settle after, well, two or three hours. And it did... but man. That was bad. Scary bad.

Never again do I let my job get so on top of me that I can't even keep my own goddamned house clean. Ridiculous. They've gotten the last blood out of me, from now on I keep what I have to myself. Enough is enough.

Expect the blog postings to become more regular again as I take my life back.

And now, it's time to work on photos from the Europe trip and think about the blogs I will write about that most wonderful of vacations.

Can't Get These In The States

2009-10-24T04:11:00.002-05:00

Within 7 hours of landing in The Netherlands yesterday, I had found and purchased my entire Drifter wardrobe for the next 2 years:

Yes, that would be python print spandex.
And tights made out of animal print foil.
And tights covered entirely in black sequins.

The 80s are ALIVE! Be afraid, be very afraid.

Ordered Eastward

2009-10-22T11:01:00.005-05:00

300 User Acceptance Scripts created in the last 5 days
3.5 hours sleep
Knowing that in 18 hours you'll be in Europe for the next 10 days = PRICELESS

I'm embarking on my first real vacation of length in three years. We are heading to Europe to see/hang with Hail of Bullets and Asphyx. After seeing them at MDF, I was consumed by the wild hare to chase them across the pond, so that's exactly what we did.

We're seeing Bullets in Antwerp, Belgium on Saturday October 24, spending a week in The Netherlands visiting war sites and museums, then on Halloween we head to Oslo for Raise The Dead Fest where we'll see Asphyx, Sodom and a bunch of other bands.

I think I've slept maybe 13 hours in the last 5 days, trying to get all my work tied up.

Half of my luggage is computer equipment so I can stay in touch with work while over there.

I haven't worked out in a month.

I have bags so big under my eyes I thought I might have to check them.

I'm freaking out that disaster will befall my project while I am gone.

But I'm going. And it's going to be fucking awesome, no matter what.

New Bracaglia Tracks plus Six String Madness!

2009-10-14T23:59:00.003-05:00

Last weekend, I completed two new tracks for Bracaglia: Undertow and Faithless Warrior. Head on over to my Myspace or Bracaglia's to check them out.

I'm glad I stayed up late to finish, sweating in my closet-made-recording booth, because when I got up on Sunday morning, I felt like utter hell. It's been raining here in Texas for the last several weeks, so the mold is OUTTA control. Allergies so bad. Ah god if I could have dissected my neck without killing myself to scratch my eustachian tubes, I would have.

Depsite feeling like hell, it didn't stop me from annoying my Indian neighbors with my new toy: a black Schecter Omen 6 and my little Spider III Line 6 amp. The guitar might be plain and the amp only 15 watts, but I can still generate some serious noise. I've already spotted Ajith or whatever his name is peeking out the blinds at my office window while I've been sawing away.

The urge to pick up the axe again began growing about a year ago. MDF really got the burn going bad - mostly because all the bands I really enjoyed played very simple, yet effective, riffs. Watching them, I kept thinking: "I can do that. I can do that. I used to play Maiden and Scorps and even Dokken passably well - I can wang along on the E string like these guys are doing, sure!"

The crazy busy summer of Software Testing Hell, as June-August 09 will forever be known, got in the way of my plans. As soon as it was over, I headed to Guitar Center where I settled on the Omen. Ever since, for at least 40 mins a day, my Indian neighbors have been seranaded by the sounds of electric chaos pouring from my office.

Oh they've had it good - for the last 10 years we've been completely quiet neighbors except for the occasional evening when I'd decide I just had to sing some Heaven and Hell or attempt to give myself a stroke by getting my Halford on with some Painkiller or Resurrection.

So far so good. My chops, what few of them there were, are coming back. I really wasn't very good the first time around, so I'm trying to remedy that this time. Practice time involves some chord progressions, chromatic scale exercises, some dexterity stuff I got off teh Interwebz, and then reward time by playing some death metal songs. Tonight's major success was getting all the way through Pestilence's "Out of the Body" with a minimum of flubs (although fuck that hammer off thing in the middle, I can't do that yet!).

And here's "Out of the Body" played pretty much right - drummer is a little loose but he's not the band's real drummer - it's Pestilence with Martin on bass - what a classic!

Changing of the Guard

2009-10-04T22:14:00.004-05:00

Last night was a bit surreal.

I was at Encore Records in Austin, attending Ignitor’s CD release party for their new album, “The Spider Queen.” It’s Stu’s brainchild, a concept album in the purest sense and his creation entirely, from story to music to lyrics. Jason told me about it last year while standing out in the parking lot of the Red Eyed Fly before a Sad Wings/Drifter gig. I was floored: I could see Stu coming up with a concept and music, but lyrics? I remember like yesterday an Ignitor practice where Stu spoke happily about how he was so glad I didn’t need any help with lyrics because he hated writing lyrics more than anything.

A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about Ignitor. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never get anything original going again that stands a chance of playing live. The work I do with Bracaglia is not particularly meant for live consumption – I’m pulling off long screams in that stuff which I could never do live. One of reasons I picked up guitar again was to be able to write songs with the idea that a better player could take my ideas and dress them up. So… I’m trying; finding a new original project just not the easiest of things to when you’re me and probably too picky for your own good.

I’m proud of what Ignitor has done since I left. “The Spider Queen.” is very different from “Road of Bones” – it kind of has to be, given the change in vocals and the concept album nature. It took me about 4 listens to get into it when I got the promo a few months ago. The first listen – I really didn’t like it. Second listen, I found some things I could like but still was bothered by a few songs. Third listen – those bothersome songs revealed themselves to be really fucking catchy and I discovered myself humming the melodies at work. Fourth listen, I’d managed to divorce myself from what I wanted it to sound like (heavier, with more solos) and just accepted it for what it was.

I’ve gotten some messages from old fans who are upset by what the new music sounds like – all I can say is thanks for being fans, check out my new stuff with Bracaglia, but give Ignitor a second chance. Jason is an amazing vocalist and I don’t say that just because he is one of my closest friends – his performance on this album shows the range of his voice, the different styles he can do, and his endless creativity with attack and harmonies. The rest of the music is solid (Stu channels some hardcore Brian May, particularly in "Dynasty of Darkness") but Jason is really the crowning glory on “The Spider Queen.”

Watching them play on stage, I could feel eyes on me as I sang along. I'm sure a few folks were wondering how I felt watching my former band move on without me. I hope everyone realizes I am okay with it – I wish them all the best and I can tell they’re all a lot happier without Ms. Picky Micromanaging It’s Not Heavy Enough Bitch in the band. Seeing them happy made me happy - and that felt really good. It’s not often I have truly altruistic moments but Saturday night was one of them.

“The Spider Queen.” hits the streets Oct 13 and is already out in Europe and elsewhere. Go check it out, keep an open mind - I hope you like it!

Krav - Hard Decisions

2009-09-23T19:50:00.002-05:00

So I’m sick and that sucks. Things at work have settled down a little, giving me time to focus on all the things I put off this summer because I was working so much. I spent last Wednesday cutting vocals for Tony on a new song called Faithless Warrior. It’s a simple song that starts quiet, building on harmonies and repetition to finish with a powerful climax. I spent a lot of time working on the harmonies and am excited to finish it – yet this annoying chest cold has thwarted my plans. I hate my bargain basement immune system.

Earlier this year (actually at the end of 08), I’d decided I wanted to 2009 to be a year of self-improvement. Bored of my at home work out schedule, I decided to take up Krav Maga. It looked fun and exciting; a way to switch things up and get energized.

I had high expectations of Krav. I wanted a brutal workout that would improve my flexibility, coordination, build muscle and burn fat. I wanted to get into the best shape of my life. I was worried about how I'd do with my various injuries. The instructors promised they would help me work around my limits. However, their sympathy dried up as quickly as the ink on my one year contract. After getting yelled at mulitple times for not rotating my left foot (arthritis in my big toe makes this excruciating) or picking my right leg up high enough (flexibility/weakness issue from the break), I started to dread the classes.

There was something sad and negative in the air at class. I smelled it the first time I walked into the building but ignored my instinctual reaction to leave. The owner had an evangelical gleam to his eye as he told me, more or less, about how Krav would change my life. He began prosletyzing about his wife’s nutrition program, about how she’d be able to tell me about all the poisons I was probably eating. My hackles were up but I really wanted to try, so I swallowed my reservations and signed up.

The ratio of men to women was about 4:1. That was a bit of a shock. Often there weren’t enough women to partner with so I’d get stuck a guy. Brutal. I just can’t keep up against someone who outweighs me by 100 lbs. Those classes felt endless and I would leave bruised, scratched, aching and discouraged. I’m sure my male partner felt similarly disappointed after having to pull kicks and punches all night.

I started to feel really down about going once several women told me during partnering exercises of what inspired them to take Krav: dangerous and abusive sig others. Not surprising of course, but still – there was a sense of desperation, of fear, not empowerment like the instructors liked to yell about. These weren’t happy ladies. They were fresh victims, smelling of torn fingernails, black eyes and crippling anxiety.

In the end, it wasn't what I wanted. I don’t enjoy group activities. I don’t enjoy having my skin torn and scratched. I don't enjoy rolling on the floor in other people's blood and sweat. I don’t enjoy being given the "you're a quitter" look when I won’t do something which causes me extreme pain. And I don’t enjoy being around hapless people who are taking Krav to defend themselves from their violent sig other that THEY’RE STILL WITH.

I’ve decided personal training is a better fit for me. No group situations. No sad sacks. No geeks who run away or flinch. Just some dude who’ll push me to my limits and help me sculpt my body in a way that doesn’t worsen my already existing injuries and pain.

I’m not quite ready to sign up for personal training yet but I will do it by the end of the year. We'll see how 2010 shapes up in regards to fitness and strength. I did okay in 2009, but 2010 needs to be THE YEAR.

Stay tuned for more blogs about my work with Bracaglia, thoughts on the new Ignitor, (you should check it out), good books I’ve read this year, and my new guitar!

Vindication

2009-08-11T20:11:00.003-05:00

I get excited about weird things.

Today, I had my yearly echocardiogram. My doc likes to keep an eye on the ol' ticker, due to my heart murmur and occasional mitral valve regurgitation. Over the past three years, my heart and I have reached accord: it occasionally flips out, beats irregularly but it keeps beating. I, in turn, do not have panic attacks over it and go to the cardiologist regularly to make sure the accord continues.

One of the things that happens to me all the time are skipped beats. Some people feel them as palpitations. I have both palpitations and skipped beats; they feel distinctly different and happen under different circumstances. Palpitations to me feel like vibrations or flutterings. I get a choking sensation in my throat. They accompany extreme anxiety, like when I am speaking to a person by whom I am intimidated. Skipped beats tend to happen when I am at rest, particularly when trying to go to sleep. I feel a sudden weird electrical buzz in my chest, then a dreadful stillness, followed by a hard thump as my heart realizes it needs to keep beating. Usually, my ears ring very briefly before the resumption of normal rhythm. I cough like a person with congestive heart failure which it makes it stop and I feel better. I don't know if what I'm experiencing is a PVC (preventricular contraction) or PAC (preatrial contraction).

For years, I'd told doctors about this and the conversation has gone thusly:
Me: "My heart feels like it stops sometimes when I'm sitting quietly."
Doctor: "Okay. So you were nervous?"
Me: "No. I was [reading/relaxing/falling asleep]"
Doctor: "You were hyperventilating?"
Me: "No. I was breathing quietly. It's very disturbing."
Doctor: "Sounds like anxiety."
Me: "I get anxious AFTER it happens. Before I am perfectly calm."
Doctor: "Well these happen when you're anxious and hyperventilating. Next time pay attention and I'm sure you'll notice you were breathing hard or upset about something."
Me: "Right."

I'm glad each and every one of these doctors has never had this happen so they can tell me I'm anxious despite my clear description of a non-anxious state and then look at me like a hypochondriac when I press the issue. It's maddening.

My current cardiologist is a very nice man who gets it and only occasionally fails to listen to me. Still, it's hard to believe he really, truly understands the weirdness that happens in my chest because I never have symptoms when I visit him. Only the first time he saw me did I have overt cardiac issues: a pulse pounding so hard he stood across the room and saw my carotid arteries throbbing in my neck and an EKG showing stable but inverted T-waves. The profound panic attack I'd been having for the last 12 hours was to blame; thankfully it's never been that intense again.

Anyway, back to why I'm excited. Today, was echo day which meant I got to spend 30 mins in a nice, dimly lit room with someone smearing cold gel all over my bony chest while viewing onscreen the muscle that keeps me alive and bitching.

And today my heart stopped during the echo and we caught it on the recording.

The technician was viewing a full cross section. I could see all 4 chambers of my heart as in a textbook, little valves flapping, blood going in and out. I was very calm and peaceful. Suddenly, I felt the slight electrical zing that preceeds the PAC or PVC and had enough time to think, "OhIhopeIseeit!" My heart did this pathetic half-squeeze and then relaxed, a deflating balloon, ventricles and atria expanding largly. Maybe 0.5 seconds passed as I felt the deadly stillness, heard my death-herald "squee" in my ears, and then LUMP, my heart contracted fully, not a huge SLAM like sometimes but a nice, solid LUMP then beat-beat-beat like nothing had happened.

"Finally!" I said to the tech. "Did you see that? A PVC! It finally happened during an echo."

"Yep," replied the tech. "Saw that."

I could have watched that 1 second loop a hundred times - there it was, finally, recorded, my vindication that I am NOT anxious, I am NOT hyperventilating - but instead lying down with a BPM of 48-50, blood pressure 102/65, totally calm, not caffeinated, not even thinking about Asphyx or Goatwhore or Hail of Bullets and WHAM, my fucking ticker gets confused, stops, and then resets itself. Just like it does about 100 times a day.

I want an MPEG of that to put on my iPhone so I can shove it in the face of the next doc I visit who disbelieves me. "Here! Look at this! Do you feel stupid now? Perhaps I should be the one wearing the coat here!" When I go for my review with my doctor, I'm going to ask if they can send me a file of it. Would love to post it for you all to see.

Like I said, I get excited about weird things. And I love nothing more than to feel vindicated against the often lazy, sometimes life-endangering medical community with whom we trust our health. Fuck you guys for making me feel like a crazy lady. My heart stops sometimes. I've got it on VIDEO.

Mountain Pictures!

2009-07-27T11:12:00.003-05:00

Here are some pics from the hike. I didn't take more because I was worried the rain would damage the camera.

Norma was ready to go.

I look like I'm 12. I guess that's a good thing.

This looks flat but it was anything but!

The misty Tuckerman Bowl which eventually foiled us.

More Bowl.

The Narrow Avoidance of Disaster

2009-07-25T09:58:00.002-05:00

Luckily, this was not us:

Massachusetts Hiker Breaks Leg Climbing Mt. Washinton

Yesterday dawned windy, cold and rainy. I rolled out of bed at 4am (unconscionable hour, that) at Norma's and hoped the storm front didn't extend all the way to Pinkham Notch, NH. Plymouth is really far away, I consoled myself, the rain will let up. Goddammit, I came up here to hike, so I'm hiking something today!

Hiking in the rain is not fun, nor is it particularly safe. As we drove up through the early morning commuter traffic, I thought about the Huntington Ravine scramble and what that would like wet. Insane. Ridiculous.

The rain poured on, we drove northward, and I choked back ire.

We arrived almost 2 hours late due to the weather, pulled into Pinkham Notch/Joe Dodge Lodge to be greeted by a nearly full parking lot. Okay, promising. We're not the only fools out in the rain today. Inside the lodge, a lot of hikers milled, their rain gear glistening. Instantly, I was filled with regret for having cheaped out and not bought a rain-proof jacket. Our ponchos (the purchase of which probably cursed us with the rain) would have to do.

After signing in to the Hikers Register, we set off up the Tuckerman Ravine Trail. I'd descended the summit via the Tucks last time and remembered it being challenging enough. It was already so wet, with so much water on the trail, that the idea of Huntington Ravine was pretty much suicide. I'm an idiot, but I'm not a stupid idiot.

Despite the rain and cool temps, we quickly worked up a sweat. Walking with care, we headed up the trail at a good pace, passing several other hikers. I expected to enter my state of early hike misery with a spiked heart rate, burning quads and a queasy stomach but it did not happen. Guess the extra hard bike sprinting and extra squats/leg work on the bag was going to pay off. Norma was doing fine as well.

The hike got steeper with larger rocks to step on. Little rivulets of water danced between the stones. We had a choice: step on the wet rocks or the really wet rocks. Some felt very slippery. As we ascended and the trees grew shorter, the mist would part at times, revealing glimpses of the Tuckerman Ravine Headwall. Despite the poor visibility, it was still very beautiful.

Quite suddenly it seemed we rounded a bend and were standing in the Bowl. To our left, the 800' Headwall loomed gray and shining, waterfalls of runoff pouring down its face. Thick fog shrouded the top. By now, the rain had stopped and I was able to mash my poncho into my backpack. Fucking thing had nearly tripped me up several times so I was glad to be rid of it.

We began the steep ascent, glad for the stones set into the trail like stairs. There were many hikers up ahead, moving slowly. I pointed to some "Up" arrows painted on the stones a few hundred feet ahead. "We get to go there!" I exclaimed. Norma looked dubious but pressed onward.

It was slow and treacherous. Some of the stones were downright slimy. We had to use our hands a lot, which meant putting them into the streamlets of freezing runoff pouring down the trail. At one point on the side of the Headwall, we encountered a lone woman who was unsure where the trail went. She seemed exhausted and scared. I went ahead, climbing several very steep stones and reacquired the trail. The woman gratefully followed, concerned she'd become separated from the other 18 hikers in her party who had gone ahead. I felt sorry for her (and mad at her friends for leaving her behind) and offered for her to tag along with us. She declined.

The trail leveled out a bit but then began another extremely steep ascent. A near vertical drop off was to our left - grave consequences to anyone who slipped off the trail. I was in mountain goat mode, clambering, hauling, encouraging Norma.

After climbing through a fairly heavy streamlet and getting soaked, we paused, looked up and decided it was too dangerous to go on. Coming down was a worry: momentum, gravity and wet freezing rocks would be working against us. The summit would need to wait for a drier and safer day. I had no doubts we would both have summited had it not been so bad out. As it was, we made it farther than I ever expected - at least 4/5 of the way. Not shabby for the terrible conditions.

Since I am writing this blog from Norma's kitchen island and not a hospital, we obviously made it down with no major events. The Headwall descent was slow but safe. It wasn't until we were on the wide part of the Tucks that we both slipped on some treacherous rocks. Legs quivering, clothes dripping wet, we arrived triumphant and alive at the Lodge. I signed us out, bought some maps, we changed our sodden clothing then headed southward. After a dinner of a lobster roll (me) and Carribean shrimp (Norma) we drove home, weary but happy.

Today, both of us are a bit sore but not crippled like I predicted. I am pleased with how we did. Clearly, I am in better shape now than I was at age 32 when I climbed Washington the first time. My bad hip doesn't hurt and my miserable arthritic foot is quiet. The body is an amazing machine. I am glad mine functions as well as it does, despite it's occasional malfunctions. Life could be way worse.

Now, we're off to Hartford on a whim to go pester Goatwhore. Mountain climbing and metal... it's all good.

I love vacation.

Pictures tomorrow.

Mt. Washington Summit Brought to You by Asphyx

2009-07-18T13:13:00.004-05:00

In less than a week, I'm going to do something that has been a source of inner terror for the past five years: Climb Mt. Washington in New Hampshire for a second time. I first did it back in 2002 and had no idea what I was getting into.

Having lived most of my life in the Northeast, hiking was just something you did. We didn't think much of it. "Let's go on a hike," my husband at the time would say, and we'd hop in the car with a backpack, a couple bottles of water and a flannel or two, and off we'd go. There was no bringing of multitools, flares, rope, whistles, signal mirrors... nothing, just two young folks with strong legs and lungs.

However, I have to say, the jaunt up Washington showed me we weren't really prepared. It was about 75º at the trail head at 8am, very pleasant, no wind. By the time we hit the summit, it was 40º, raining, with 70 MPH winds that nearly blew me off my feet in several places. Quite a surprise to the unexpecting. We were not wholly ignorant of how the weather can change quickly in that environ, but the extremity of it was more than we expected. Especially the gusting wind. I've never been faced with wind so strong I simply could not take a step forward. It was like being on the moon.

All that I described above is not the thing that has become the source of fear, though. The icon of terror in my mind is the Huntington Ravine Scramble, a lichen coated face of granite rock jutting upward god only knows how many feet - looked like 1000 to me in 2002 but probably is only 250-400 feet. A narrow, rocky path zig zags up it, invisible to the observer standing at the base. I remember regarding the first scramble, the yellow blaze of paint on the rock face 20 feet up in front of me and asking my climbing partner, "I have to go up THAT?"

It was one of those cases where if I'd known what awaited me, I would have never tried it. On our bellies, feet scrabbling, we struggled up the slippery rock, paused and realized we had no idea where the path went. My climbing partner went on ahead to try to find the right path.

I huddled on the ledge. To my right was a sheer drop of several hundred feet, a bed of razor sharp boulders at the bottom. Certain death. To my left, the headwall soared upwards, gently curving left to right like the interior of a giant bowl. Shrieking wind gusted, forcing me to hunker low so I would not be blown off. My thighs were burning from the crouch, shaking from the exhaustive 2+ hrs of hiking we'd already done. I remember thinking, "If I fall and it doesn't kill me, there's no way they can get a chopper in here for rescue, not with the wind and the rock face so close. So if I fall, I'm dead."

Slow, cold panic set in right about then. My muscles were rubber. I'd forgotten to trim my nails so they were a bit long and I could not grip the stones well. Alone, I felt the paralysis setting in, where you can't go forward and you can't go back. My climbing partner could have been gone for hours; time was stretching out.

I have never been so terrified in my life.

The short version of the story is my partner returned, having found the right path. I unfroze myself and turned my back to the howling void and proceeded to rip my fingernails ragged dragging myself up the tall boulders. At one point I had a blubbering, "I can't do this" 10 second breakdown then decided to take the energy I could exert towards crying and invest it in getting up the fucking giant rock in front of me. The worst was over quickly and we went on to summit, with a sense of great accomplishment.

Because I have an anxiety disorder coupled with mild PTSD, my lovely brain has taken those moments on that scramble and blown them up to a terror the size of an IMAX movie. Over the years I have gone back to that moment where I knew I would be dead if I made one wrong move, over and over, realizing that we really were not prepared for that climb. Yes, we were fit and we had plenty of food and water but aside from that... if anything else had happened, we would have been F.U.C.K.E.D.

I believe strongly in facing and conquering my fears. Plus, I love hiking and don't get to do it much, given that I live in a fairly flat place. So, I've tricked Norma into going along with me next week. She's never done a major hike before, but she's incredibly strong and agile and has the lungs of a racehorse. I know she's in better shape than me so this is where Asphyx comes in.

For those of you who don't know Asphyx, they are a Dutch death metal band that's been around since the late 80s. They play mid-paced, doomy metal. I'm currently obsessed with them right now (sorry Goatwhore), especially after seeing them at Maryland Death fest. Their new album, "Death: The Brutal Way" is absolutely killer and perfect for working out. Not too slow, not too fast. I've been putting it on in the garage and kicking the living shit out of my punching bag to the music. Then, when I'm ready to puke from the heat and exertion, I go inside, put on the awesome DVD of their performance at Party San in 2007 and bust out 45 mins on the exercise bike, pedaling to the beat. It's perfect... some songs are faster and make me sprint, others slower where I can concentrate on using certain muscles. My blood pressure the other day was 99/71 with a heart rate of 52 BPM, so all the working out is certainly working!

So, powered by the awesome riffing of Wannes and Paul, the pounding drums of Bob and the howling vocals of Martin, I've been training like a madwoman for my climb. Next Friday, I will get to that scramble and I will conquer it. I will face that fear with the song "Scorbutics" banging through my head and I will kick that mountain's ass.

But first, I have to go to Rei and get a signal mirror, compass, multitool and a whistle... I might be physically ready, but I do need to be better prepared than the last time!

Pictures will be posted next week.

It's National Day of Slayer!

2009-06-06T11:58:00.002-05:00

Today (and always on June 6 henceforward) you need to:
Go visit National Day of Slayer then:

* Listen to Slayer at full blast in your car.
* Listen to Slayer at full blast in your home.
* Listen to Slayer at full blast at your place of employment.
* Listen to Slayer at full blast in any public place you prefer.

DO NOT use headphones! The objective of this day is for everyone within earshot to understand that it is the National Day of Slayer. National holidays in America aren't just about celebrating; they're about forcing it upon non-participants.

FUCKIN' SLAYER!

Maryland Death Fest Day 3: Surprise, Surprise

2009-05-28T02:02:00.005-05:00

The sun rose blazing on Sunday, May 24 but was sorely outclassed by the magenta sunburns walking around at the end of Saratoga Street. The crowd was thinner and clearly tired. Not everyone has the stomach for three days of humid, sunny metal. We were there to persevere. This is when fitness and proper hydration come in handy. Exquisite lunch #2 at Miss Shirley's helped as well.

A friend had informed me as we were leaving Saturday night that Pestilence had dropped off the bill. The running order promised a "surprise performance" at 10pm - it took us about 2 minutes to run into one of the bands who informed us the surprise was Bolt Thrower. How awesome! Twice in one weekend!

The Red Chord started off my afternoon to tepid indifference, both my own and the crowd's. Perhaps it was the heat or maybe they are coming to the end of their run as the thrash resurgence quickens - by next year we'll know. Not one of my favorite bands, that's for certain. Listening to them clash and scream, I had a moment where I heard the music as an outsider would. Like Atheist, this is what all metal sounds like to people who don't listen to it.

I can see why parents worry sometimes.

Absu was up next, so we wove through the departing Red Chorders to find stage space up front. Today was not my day for barrier time; I settled for second row behind two Satanic Hispanics in full leather patch vests. They weren't particularly tall, so I figured the spot would serve. The band took forever to start; Pestilence's cancellation loosened up the changeover time. We stood and melted patiently.

The crowd had been storing energy like solar batteries for the Dallas black metal masters. When Absu started, they exploded into motion. I had about 5 seconds to realize the Satanic Hispanics were going to cover me in a storm of thrashing black hair the entire set and then...

WHAM!

Something rock hard connected with my skull - fist or forehead, I'll never know. A constellation of pain exploded across both sides of my head and down my face. Commupance for my pushing to gain front row for Axphyx for sure, but it wasn't to end there. Two fists hammered my back, shoving me into the flying hair of the SHs. A large male body connected to a screaming mouth slammed into me, pins and patches scratching my bare arms. Another fist connected on top of my shoulder. The drunk behind me was going to be a pleasure to endure.

The next two Absu songs went like this:
Band: chugga chugga chugga
Mr. Exuberance: "Swords and metallllllllllllll!" stomp punch smash scratch shove
Me: retain footing and resist the urge to kill

After Mr. Exuberance dragged his razor-edged three day wrist band down the back of my arm for the tenth time and brought his elbow down on the juncture of my shoulder and neck for the third, I'd had enough. I threw him off me with a Krav butt check, knocking him, his girlfriend and several other people back. When he recoiled into me I threw two light rear elbows, connected glancingly with midsection and then stood down. Message sent was message received. He laid off.

Annoyance addressed, I could now focus on Absu. They put on a tight performance, much better than their SXSW gig. Proscriptor hammered the gold sparkle kit like no other drummer. It held, unlike the rented SXSW kit. Ezuzu shed his sunglasses halfway through to fix the crowd with his wild eyes. The two vocalists traded parts to great effect. Several crowd members supplemented falsetto screams at appropriate moments, further adding to the fun. Proscriptor garnered laughs with his numerological run up to "Four Crossed Wands" ("In numerology, spell 181 is 1 plus 8 plus 1 which makes 10 so why the hell is this song called 'Four Crossed Wands'?!"). Why indeed, Proscriptor? Why indeed?

I do hope that Absu's upcoming headlining tour goes well; the crowd clearly wanted more than what they had time to deliver. More people should get the chance to experience the magic that is Proscriptor McGovern on drums. He is a rhythmic genius.

By set end, my feet were pleading for reprieve. A short rest, then back out to watch Abscess, another drummer-vocalist outfit. I spent some of their set crowd-watching and storing up stories about bad tattoos (red shopping cart on one arm, green mop and bucket on the other) and worse piercings. The pierced fat hump at the back of the neck has to be the worst - it's bad enough chicks are so overweight they develop the metabolic issues which result in that hump, but then they have to draw attention to the fucking thing by driving 2 or 3 barbells through it. Your mother's got a right to be disappointed in you.

Aura Noir was up after Abscess. I'd found their first few albums enjoyable then lost track of them. We found some curb space quite close to the front and had a great time. "We are Aura Noir, ugliest band in the world!" the vocalist announced. I found some pictures of him the next day and concurred. Their set was an energetic surprise, tight and true to form. It made me promise that upon my return home I would go dig out all my old CDs.

Finally, it was time for Destroyer 666. I'd never seen them live, so I headed back up front to get a closer look. Mr. Exuberance was still up there, this time hollering "Satanic thrash metalllllllll!" over and over again. I prepared myself for end-of-night-hijinks but he was clearly worn out. Whew.

The Aussies took the stage, ready to fill us full of evil from down under. Bassist Matt reminds me of a Tazzie devil - squat and jaw-heavy, KK Warslut a large and somewhat tatty kangaroo. Some people remind me of animals, what can I say? It's not a bad thing... both are violent creatures and the Destroyer boys no different. They tore ferociously through their tunes, sawing away at their instruments as if they wished to leave them in pieces. Their set was clearly the highlight for many attendees, especially a fellow sporting a giant "Destroyer 666" tattoo across his chest. Now that is dedication, my friends. The predominantly red light show catching on Destroyer's abundant spikes added to the feeling of Satanic mayhem. The last crowd riders of the night did their thing, including one girl who executed a beautiful surf. I caught her solid, muscular calf in my hand as she passed over me, stiff and tidy and easy to support. Her band logo underwear was clearly visible beneath her short skirt. I applauded her for making sure she matched all the way - good for you, most put-together metal girl. Keep it up!

Mr. Exuberance continued to holler "Satanic thrash metal!!!" between songs and finally KK obliged with the song "Satanic SPEED metal." I laughed to myself quietly - if you're going to yell the song title, please make sure you've got it right, for fuck's sake. After a short negotiation with the sound man over continuing to play, they ripped out two more tunes, finishing with "Australian and Antichrist." KK thanked the exhausted crowd: "It's been a pleasure and an honor." Perhaps an outsider would be puzzled that someone, who seconds before had been screaming about Satan, would then sincerely thank his audience, but that's the thing about us metalheads: we're full of surprises.

As I left the stage, a girl shoved into my spot, triumphant in her body language. Guess not everyone had gotten the memo that Pestilence had cancelled.

Bolt Thrower was already thundering away inside the Sonar as we staggered down the street. We peeked inside, saw that it was jammed to the gills, smiled, and opted out. We were all in. Immolation was collected again and back to Paper Moon we went, to stuff our faces with Southern Love Burgers (burger, pulled pork BBQ, bacon and cheese!), sweet potato fries and decadent peanut butter pie. Some metalheads have hangovers; we have foodovers.

In closing, this was an incredible event. Well run. Timely changeovers. Security who did their jobs well. Nicely behaved fans. Decent to great sound. A lineup to die for. Perhaps my most wonderful moments of 2009... as I write this, I'm a bit sad - I'm missing everyone already and longing to go chasing after you all, be you close or far. It's been a long time since I've been to a metal fest so excellent, so full of good surprises. Let's give it up to Ryan Taylor and Evan Harting - they masterfully organized a wonderful event for all us crazy motherfuckers. Here's to MDF 2010 - hope to see you there!

Maryland Death Fest Day 2: Not One, But Two Perfect Moments

2009-05-26T21:37:00.006-05:00

We awoke with sore backs from an unfamiliar bed and sore necks from Asphyx-worship. Lunch was at a mind-blowing uptown restaurant called Miss Shirley's which evoked good old Southern hospitality. Culture shock ameilorated, we made libations with sunscreen and headed to the venue.

Hail of Bullets were playing first. Donning gay white long sleeved shirt and gayer white ball cap (sun protection for my hide is a priority), I scored a choice barrier position and settled in to wait. Immolation was spotted heading through the crowd, fan entourage in tow and growing. The box of merch on Bob Vigna's shoulder held the attention of many. You could see them salivating over what goodies might be hidden inside. My husband disappeared after them; Immolation are some of our dearest friends and it had been over a year since either of us had seen them last.

Hangovers and sunburns were rife. The sullen, heavyset girl next to me with lovely, delicate tattoos on her arms slowly fried pink as the sun beat down. How people can spend hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on ink only to destroy it with sunburns will always elude me. MDF definitely did its part to damage a lot of tattoos and fuel skin cancer research. Metalheads are not a sunscreen-wearing bunch, that's for certain.

Compared to waiting for Goatwhore in the 105ºF heat of Ozzfest last year, waiting for Hail of Bullets was cake. The band took the stage and launched into General Winter. MVD immediately turned pink from effort. Despite the heat, everyone put on a very energetic performance, especially Paul Baayens. A storm of brown hair, Baayens' grinning energy was infectious. He's the kind of player who makes me wish I'd stuck with guitar. Just brilliant. Cute, too. Sorry folks, I have to wax girlish every so often...

The band ripped through "The Red Wolves of Stalin", "Nachthexen", "The Crucial Offensive" to name a few, then tromped into the opening strains of "Berlin". "Here it comes," I thought. "Now to find out if the moment on the plane is going to be matched by this." I held my arms up to the sky. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy when the vocals came in. Both crowd and band rocked to the slow beat of the song while MVD stood on the monitors, white hair shining in the sun, a giant timber wolf of a man, worthy of worship. The guitars soared through the somber melody and then into the grinding march, to the part... MY PART.

"Just one more battle..." Waterfalls of chill washed over me.
"One more storm..." I stood up on tip toes, both arms out, leaning to the band.
"The war is over...." The music poured into my soul and my soul poured out to the stage. Paul Baayens and I locked eyes and sang the last line together:
"It is done!"

It was, without a doubt, THE PERFECT MOMENT. What I wanted on the plane at 35,000 feet was one tenth of what I actually experienced. Transcendence. Exquisite and almost agonizing. Perfect moments are rare diamonds in the gravel of life. I will take the moment of that last line with me to my grave. Thank you, Paul; thank you, Hail of Bullets, thank you.

The band finished triumphant with "Ordered Eastward". An amazing debut performance on American soil. I hope it brings them back. As they finished, I felt a bit weepy: it was over - no more Hail of Bullets, all gone, el finito, go deal with your refractory period during Brutal Truth while you wait for Immolation.

After such magic, it was unpleasant to endure the horror that is Dan Lilker without a shirt. Maybe someone with stock in Gillette might enjoy looking at him but I did not. Yes I know, Dan's a crucial person in metal. Yes, I know Brutal Truth is not about image. But fuck, man, I hear shower drains everywhere crying for mercy... put on a shirt. PLEASE.

I'll admit, they were entertaining. One of the enormous security guards got splashed with lager and shook his head ominously, a thunderstorm on his brow. His expression spoke volumes about his rate of pay in relation to his work. The crowd-surfers kept them busy. I kept waiting for the singer to lose control of his flattened SM58 and render someone in the front row unconscious. The drummer wore a permanent expression of "OhgodImnotgonnamakethispart" and the guitarist wore Crocs. My eyes kept ticking to the "Gay St." sign visible behind the stage. I would not have been surprised had the singer dropped his pants and mooned everyone with what I'm sure was a very hairy (although not as hairy as Mr. Lilker's) behind. The set ended with all pants still up, the stage soaked in beer, and the security looking quite relieved.

Time for Immolation. No one brings rosy-cheeked death metal like these boys from Yonkers. The crowd became restless while the line check dragged on - nothing like a set of suddenly misbehaving drum triggers to tap into every sound man's Dickaroundinator tendencies. Eventually, the issue was remedied (the other kick mike plugged in - how NOVEL) and thunderous death metal poured from the mains.

Ross Dolan has the best hair in the metal scene, while Bob Vigna has the best moves. Vigna's angular, sharp movements paired with their squeal-heavy riffs conjured ancient alchemical symbols in the humid air. The man creates magic with the headstock of his guitar. Immolation's set positively streaked by (although to listen to them tell it later, it felt like an eternity with the setting sun searing into their eyes) and soon, they were finishing up while the crowd chanted along. I'm always happy to see them get a great response; they've been doing this for over 20 years and the recognition is well-deserved.

After Immolation, it was time for a well-needed rest. Atheist took the stage and started jangling out incomprehensible chaos eons away from the classic album Piece of Time. We all winced, then headed inside for some sit time. Ah god, my aching ankles.

As the sun went down and the temperature dropped, anticipation for Bolt Thrower rose. So many years since the band last set foot on US soil, almost an entire generation born in the interim. The street was jammed with sunburned bodies as the intro music boomed across Baltimore. Standing rather far in the back, I made a half-hearted attempt to get a bit closer but ended up surrounded by 6-foot plus men, my only view of the stage being the upper light rig. Shit. Eventually, I found a decent spot directly behind the sound booth - not perfect but at least my view was mostly unobstructed. The set list resting on the unused faders gave me insight into what would come next. It was interesting watching the sound men monitor the output - they had an impressive stylus-controlled touch-screen software complimenting the standard analog board.

Ah, but I wax geek: back to Bolt Thrower. They are a solid band indeed, perhaps not the most original or innovative, but their brand of 240 BPM war metal has remained consistently enjoyable since their first album. I'm not sure what I liked more: the music or watching the crowd. Some fans had gotten atop The Sonar roof and were banging with abandon at the railing. The view must have been enviable. Others, farther back than I and most likely unable to see, were losing their proverbial shit regardless.

During "In Battle There Is No Law," I was granted another moment: in college, we'd tormented our floor mates with a jury-rigged superstereo made from a high fi stereo supplemented by two Crate amps. We'd crank "In Battle There Is No Law" at near top volume, then make it worse by belting out the intro in our unpracticed death metal voices. Jesus, the 1990 6th floor residents of Kate Gleason Hall at RIT hated the four of us. As the song started, I was once again overwhelmed. This time, instead of being filled with aching transcendental longing, I was refreshed by the riotous innocence and joy from when I was 18.

Two moments in one day, two diamonds... tears threatened to well. Last year in August, Tony Iommi's solo during the Heaven and Hell had brought on a moment. That time the tears had spilled, such was the beauty of his playing and my joy in being part of such a wonderful event.

All too often we adults forget what made us vital when we were young. Lose that and all that's waiting for you are death and taxes. Metal serves to keep those times, those triggers, fresh. That's why we can't stop. That's why the bouncer checks my ID and says, "Heh, you're old." That's why all this is so special and why events like MDF are so important. Bolt Thrower made me 18 again, Bolt Thrower took away my worries about my job. Bolt Thrower made me be utterly present and undistracted for 90 minutes straight. Tell me that's not good for my health. Tell me that's not meditation at 140 decibels.

When Bolt Thrower finished, everyone started to droop, yours truly included. Destroyer 666 were the exception. Lit and rowdy, the Aussies were jostling about in front of the main Sonar entrance, busily giving each other front wedgies. Ouch. We collected Immolation, then headed to Paper Moon for some amazing food. I managed to not piss myself laughing or choke to death while eating - that crew is beyond hilarious. Superstars, all of you. Oink Oink.

With throbbing limbs, I went to sleep knowing the fest could have ended that night. That would have been enough, that would have been sufficient. But, like I said in the last post, the metal flagon runneth over... another day, more great bands to come! Life could not be better!

Maryland Death Fest Day 1: Mayhemic Asphyxation

2009-05-25T22:00:00.006-05:00

Ahh, finally... The three days of metal I've been waiting for about a year! My week started hectic and compressed on Sunday with a work trip to Cupertino. Work trips are always a mess, as I've blogged before. Our site, formerly 4 blocks from the hotel, is now 2.83 miles away but I chose to walk it each day knowing it would provide me with 40 minutes of exercise and mental down time. Northern California is pleasant and cool at this time of the year, fragrant with blooming flowers and abundant with birds. Despite the copious outside time (not to mention sushi as well), by Wednesday I was thoroughly ready to say sayonara to my place of employment for the next 7 days.

Fearing a delay/cancellation, I had pre-packed all my metal necessities (bullet belt, army pants, Martin van Drunen T-shirt, 100 different colors of eyeshadow) so prepping for MDF was a breeze despite my 12am arrival from Cupertino. My bed greeted my back at 1:30am and was abandoned by it 5 hours later, as our Thursday flight to Baltimore left early at 9:30am.

As far as flights go, the trip out to MD was perfect. No screaming babies, no complaining adults, a few entertaining moments making fun of fellow travelers. While flying, my husband chose to endeavor in unconsciousness while I plugged into Hail of Bullets for some final pre-show lyric memorization homework (van Drunen sets a high bar - his narrative lyrics are packed with facts and not particularly easy for me to remember). Like always, the doomy breakdown in "Berlin" made the hair on my arms and neck stand on end: "Just one more battle, one more storm, the war is over; it is done." I find that part overflowing with the ache, exhaustion and sorrow soldiers on both sides must have felt at the end of WWII. It never fails to stir and chill me at the same time. I was filled with anxious hope that the live performance would elicit the same response as the recording.

We landed without event. After a fine dinner, we went to ground. MDF tomorrow!!!!

Friday: culture shock sets in. Living in Texas, one gets used to cheery, quick service - neither of which we experienced at Grill Art Cafe in Hampden. My $13 field greens salad took 45 minutes to arrive and consisted of olives, tomatoes and onions atop desultory bed of aged romaine lettuce. Had I not been anxious to get to the fest, it would have gone back with a stern reprimand but the elderly owner/server/bar keep got off light this time. We headed to the festival, hopped in line, and immediately saw Martin van Drunen (MVD) shambling through the crowd, probably heading back to his hotel. Martin is unmistakable with his long-limbed Dutch height and mane of white-gray hair. I resisted the urge to dash out of line and hop at his feet like some eager Jack Russell terrier begging for a treat - he is one of my favorite metal luminaries. Consuming Impulse kept me company on many a lonely afternoon in college. To this day, CI is one of my top three albums. I would be happily abandoned on a desert island with it, Deicide's Deicide and Morbid Angel's Altars of Madness as my only entertainment.

We went inside, attempted to find our press passes, failed, then went on a merch hunt. Bolt Thrower's shirts were already selling fast; priced at $10 and $12 respectively, they were flying off the table. My husband indulged while I went in search of a much desired Hail of Bullets shirt. Score. No camo tank tops though... will have to order from the website. We noted the locations of free or cheap water, shade, bathrooms. Old friends were met, new ones made. I found Wannes of Asphyx to be one of the nicest, most personable people I've ever met. After a good-natured eye-roll over my husband's homemade MVD shirt (and a groan when I told him I had one too, but was saving it for Saturday), he took us to where MVD was hanging so we could get a photo. I conducted a toned-down version of my terrier dance, blathered a bit and took a photo with him. MVD was very patient. I don't think I was too much the dork fangirl.

News that Marduk had cancelled due to visa issues cast a slight pall over the evening. The substitution of Cephalic Carnage on the main stage was quite satisfactory to CC and their fans. I, however, had been looking forward to missing them. Time did fly by and soon Mayhem prepared to assault Maryland. I am not a huge Mayhem fan; I appreciate their importance and enjoy a few songs, but by and large, what they do doesn't reach me. I used their set time to start positioning myself for Asphyx. Balanced on eight square inches of curb on the right side of the stage, I was in the perfect spot to be crushed when the chain link fence separating the crowd from the backstage collapsed not once, but three times. The first was the most surreal; the fence went down to reveal a foggy-looking MVD seated in a folding chair, elbows on knees, grinning at the sea of struggling bodies. After collapse #3, which found me on my back, legs tangled in those of the man on top of me, I decided I'd dared fate long enough and chose to risk the pushing, surging crowd.

Normally, I'm quite conscientious of my crowd manners. I try not to step on feet, accidentally trap hair, or whack people with my elbows when I'm raising and lowering my arms. All bets were off this time; the fresh, un-hungover crowd was slamming, shoving, pushing and being generally retarded. Mayhem garners fans who I am not sure appreciate them for their musical contributions - the murder hype seems the attractant. I used the misbehavior to begin working my way to the front, because if I'm not right in front, I'm not seeing shit. Krav Maga and HundredPushups.com came in handy - my balance is better and I can push and elbow my way more forcefully than ever before. Sorry to everybody who I elbowed who didn't deserve it. Don't worry, I got mine on day three, but that's two blogs from this one. I scored my barrier spot, wrapped my hand around the metal strut, and waited.

Mayhem ran over, eating badly into Asphyx's set time. The band rushed to set up, knowing the 11pm curfew was not a suggestion - it was going to be a hard stop. They tore into "Vermin" and the crush was reminiscent of Iron Maiden's Somewhere Back in Time tour. The thought "Oh my god, I'm seeing Asphyx" kept looping through my head as MVD, Wannes, Paul and Bob brought forth songs nigh 20 years old for the first time ever in the USA. It was clear from the smiles on stage that everyone was having a fabulous time. The bouncers' expressions didn't reflect the joy of either band nor crowd; I'm sure they would have much rather been listening to hip hop. The headbanging madness both onstage and in-crowd must be somewhat mystifying to them - I'm sure we look a ridiculous lot to the outside eye. Differences aside, security did a fantastic job keeping everyone safe; the front barrier was poorly buttressed and the only thing that kept it from going over was their yellow-shirted strength.

Wannes sent Abomination Echoes out to us (and some others) towards the end of the night: "... to the guy in the Martin van Drunen shirt - tacky, very tacky - and his wife, this song is for you!" Thank you, Wannes!

In the middle of "The Rack" the mains were taken offline promptly at 11pm to avoid a noise ordinance violation and its accompanying sizable fine. The city-enforced fade-out only heightened the perfection of the set. I removed the barrier from between my fourth and fifth ribs: exhausted, bruised and exultant. Ahhhh god, Asphyx! How I hope they come back again...

Before leaving, I spent some time craning up at Ian from Destroyer 666 while he and my husband chatted. Economy class must be an exquisite torture for men as tall as him. Ian's Aussie charm reminded me of how much I enjoyed visiting that corner of the world. I found myself looking forward to the Destroyer set on Sunday even more.

Thus closed the first day of MDF. Saturday promised even more: Hail of Bullets, Immolation and Bolt Thrower. The metal flagon runneth over and we are rich beyond imagination...

Flags of Hate, A Toxic Waltz and Too Much Vodka

2009-05-09T16:11:00.004-05:00

The sign on the bathroom door reads:

"WARNING: Heavy use of strobe lights tonight!"

A night promising epilepsy? Sounds like a great time to me!

Kreator, Exodus, Belphegor, Warbringer and Epicurean were in Texas. My lingering bronchitis finally on the wane, I head down to San Antonio with my husband for an evening of death and thrash metal. Exodus and Kreator were two of much loved bands from my adolescence and Belphegor is hilariously brutal with their squarejaw death metal.

We arrive at the Scout Bar at 9pm to discover we've missed the first three bands. As the thrash resurgence quickens, promoters and clubs alike seem to be making the sensible move to start shows earlier, so the under 21 set can fully enjoy the chaos. I don't mind, but it's a paradigm shift in timing I have not yet mentally incorporated, and so, we miss more than half the show.

Behind the club, Belphegor is outside the now ubiquitous CruiseAmerica RV being provided to touring bands. Freshly post-set, they are sweaty and shirtless and Neanderthal. I am disappointed to have missed their set. Helmuth is quite jovial and insists we return after the show to the filthy camper to drink with him.

Mind you, neither of us drink, but with Helmuth, NO is not an option.

Inside, the Scout is fairly full, which always makes me happy. The scene is healthy, full of faces young enough to be my spawn. Most everyone is already sweating in the mid-80s Texas evening heat. Exodus is banging through Bonded by Blood. Although the band is mostly new members, they play the old material well and I am transported back to 1989 with my mother saying, "I HATE your shirt with the babies on it." Gary Holt, for whom I once held a passing 15-second fancy, still runs around the stage with good energy and enacts whammy bar torments upon his guitar to great effect.

I spot a friend wending her way through the crowd; after a quick greeting she and I head through the pit to the front. In their heyday, Exodus shows were fearfully revered: the pits were some of the most violent around. When they came through Buffalo in 1989 on their Fabulous Disaster tour, my boyfriend would not let me go. Disappointed, I moped at home and anxiously ran to the gym class we shared the next morning to find out what I'd missed. Ron was sporting a quail egg on his forehead with a large bloody gouge - that was the first and only time I'd ever seen him injured in the pit. I remember thinking, "Whew, I'm glad I didn't go."

As the years have passed, I've come to regret missing that show. Running up front with my friend, I reflect that it is now 20 years since that missed opportunity, 20 years of injuries, aging and fragility on me and where am I? At the rim of an Exodus pit in metal rabid San Antonio with my back to the moshers. But I am fine... mostly thanks to the fact that 70% of Texas metalheads have a BMI of 35+ and resemble ambulatory sacks of meal. No one is bony and no one has any stamina. It's like being surrounded by a bunch of hot, damp pillows who move crazily in cycles of 20 or 30 seconds, followed by exhausted stillness for 10 minutes or so.

"PLAY TOXIC WALTZ!" is the common cry during the set. My friend turns to me, laughing. "They aren't gonna play it, I bet they're sorry they ever wrote it!" True, Toxic Waltz tends to be roundly hated by many metal fans - it's a silly song at best, with lyrics so basic a nine year old could have done better. But... I have to admit, I like it. Always have. I loved the video: flying white Cons and the band running around the stage, Rick Hunolt's amazing leap... it celebrated what we thrashers did with no apologies. I remember sitting on the couch in my living room watching it with my boyfriend and holding his hand. Innocent little thrasher I was. That song is forever interwoven into that feeling of teenage wonder.

I am surprised when Rob Dukes announces Toxic Waltz as the last song. "I want to see this entire room - from the back to the front - fucking moving!" he screams. People oblige for about 20 seconds until their lives of Interwebz and Xbox bid them slow down, heave for breath. As for me? I think about 20 years again as I richochet between sweaty pillow-men, and how in a way, this is a redemption for missing Exodus so long ago. I am gleeful. Once I was 17 and moping I was forbidden to go see this band, now, nearly 40, I am there, in the pit, getting buffeted and having a blast.

An open circle closes in my psyche.

Kreator... well, seeing them in 1989 was a highlight of my show-going career - I banged until I was crosseyed. Frank Blackfire came straight to me and placed his pick firmly in my hand at the end of the set. Back then, that kind of contact blew my mind. I left the club moony and swooning, at least until I got a good look at a photo of Frank the next day and realized that swooning wasn't really merited.

The sign on the bathroom door about strobes wasn't kidding. Five or six positioned at the rear of the stage constantly blast the crowd in time with the double-bass. The bouncer makes an eight year old kid at the barrier put on sunglasses - can't have the kiddies twitching out in the middle of Violent Revolution. The bright lights allow me to observe how most of the front row doesn't seem to understand why they are there; blank faces stare up at Mille and crew for most of the set. A sloppy girl doing dance club hand movements seems to know the songs fairly well, although she isn't metal in the least. I quietly cheer when her slightly off-time clapping forces her huge plastic sunglasses to eject themselves from where she's stored them in her cleavage. Next to her, a 300+ pound female gothapotamus moos vapidly at the band. The brilliant strobes illuminate the tic-tac-toe board of cutting scars on her hamhock arms. I feel an intense impulse to get a Sharpie and ask someone if they want to go a couple rounds with me...

A lot of Kreator's material misses the mark, but they do play the classics: Extreme Agression, Pleasure to Kill and Flag of Hate, to name a few. Mille's unnecessary and overlong crowd-baiting before Flag has us ready to bail, but he only incites the crowd to scream "HATE!!!" three times, not the six or seven as we had heard he'd done on previous tours.

The show now over, we are beholden to keep our promise to go "have a drink" with Belphegor. Helmuth ushers us in to the den of iniquity that the CruiseAmerica has become. Greetings with various band members and tour support folk are exchanged. Whiskey is poured and knocked back. We think we are done, but no - now a bottle of Skyy vodka is thrust into our faces. "Vodka shot, come on!" We oblige. I hate beer and dislike 99% of wine, but I can handle hard liquor - perhaps because gulping is considered acceptable; the suffering only lasts a few seconds. Helmuth uses his fabulous peer-pressure skills to force another small shot down our craws before relenting. He then attempts to get us to smoke but finds no traction there. We depart the garbage-laden camper to the sidewalk outside and chat.

Five minutes later, I'm leaning heavily against the RV. The world is starting to slant slightly to the left and my eyes don't track so well. Helmuth cycles between good-naturedly insulting anyone in his line of sight and attempting to get us to drink more. I laugh too loudly and can't stop clapping my hands together over the off-color jokes and stories being told. After 30 minutes, my status as non-driver is exploited - the king of metal peer-pressure drags me back into the RV to toss back the last of the Skyy with him. Outside, I slug myself back up against the side of the Cruise and remain there until my husband announces it's time to leave. The walk to the car is done very carefully - pick up your feet - I pour into the passenger seat and promptly slant to the left.

As we drive home, I reflect on how much time has passed between the amazing metal gravy days of 1989 and now. How the thread is still unbroken. How the fire still burns. How I'm seeing a whole new generation of young kids at thrash shows - their pimply faces full of black, burning light. When Frank Blackfire put that pick in my hand I was still a round-faced little girl; now my hair is going gray. I think about how we are all aging relentlessly yet holding on to metal just as relentlessly. I think, as I often do, of my mother's desperate admonitions that this was just a phase. Yes, mother - the phase that never ends.

Home now. I flop down into bed. The room takes repeated hard lefts on a one second cycle. Gaaaah, make it stop. Yet, I am happy. I closed a circle tonight and once again saw why I stick with this sometimes crazy way of being. I renew two promises: to never let go of metal and to never, EVER let Helmuth make me drink that much again.

TXDOT has a sense of humor

2009-05-01T14:30:00.002-05:00

Here's a little bit of tar art in my neighborhood. My husband thought this was just a patch at first but I am convinced it is something more mischievous. What do you all think? Perhaps this should be entitled: "Tits or Tarpatch?"

Update Schmupdate

2009-04-22T18:55:00.003-05:00

I feel bad I haven't had time to post anything notable so here's a post just to let you know I'm still alive...

My job is still nuts. It will remain so. There are worse things; at least I have a job.

A couple weeks ago I shared stage space with Austin's Motorhead tribute Capricorn USA as Wendy O Williams, performing "No Class" with my bros Doug, Sean and Jason. Never was 2:42 seconds so fun. And no, droolhards, my outfit was not made out of electrical tape but it was pretty dinky! I'm trying to find some photos to post...

Krav Maga is getting better, although I have a weird reaction to going to class. When I'm there, I think it's super fun. When I'm not... ah christ, it's the last thing I want to do. When you boil me down to the scunge that makes up my inner self, I'm a misanthrope. Dealing with strangers makes me anxious. Last thing I want to do is practice side-choke breaks with some woman wearing a "Amarillo Christian Summer Camp" T shirt. But I go... because it is good and I can see/feel a difference.

Norma convinced me to try The 100 Push Ups Challenge. Following the website's training program, you should be able to do 100 pushups in 6 weeks or so. Tomorrow's Day 3 of the program, not bad so far.

Health remains good although I caught a cold about 2 weeks back and now sound as if I have tuberculosis. This will continue for approximately 1 more week if history serves. Yes, I'm THAT person in the office with THE COUGH. My wacky hormone levels from last year finally are normalized. My bad hip still has bad days, but the biggest pisser currently is the increasing arthritis in my left big toe. The Krav moves are only making it worse but what am I supposed to do, NOTHING? Had a great conversation with Ben Goatwhore last Friday about how sometimes we wish we could cut off our feet and be done with the problems. Would that it was so easy.

Looking forward to Maryland Death Fest next month. The timing is hilarious; at work a huge project is going live and I will be AWOL during this critical event. I'm sorry - Hail of Bullets and Asphyx take precedence over Unicode conversion. Text me in the pit if you need me...

Summer is shaping up to be dandy: Tony B has sent me some kick ass songs to work on, Goatwhore is on tour, the mister and I are heading to Portland in June, Norma and I are going to kick Mt. Washington's ass in July, and then if it works out, I'll be in Alburquerque, NM on Aug 10 catching The British Steel Judas Priest Tour at the Sandia Casino. Please check the link - place looks beyond cool. Oh yeah, Drifter's got a bunch of shows, including an August 29 appearance at the most venerable San Antonio Sunken Garden Theater which was the first place I ever saw Iron Maiden in Texas! Full circle, me loveys!

Hope this post finds you all well and enjoying your lives. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Pap Sneers

2009-04-07T20:38:00.002-05:00

I hate the ob-gyn's office. The air is thick with estrogen and ovulation. I can't breathe. All these bloated, waddling women with two kids already in tow and a beleaguered husband bringing up the rear make me shudder. Time in the waiting room is like being on Mars. Surrounded by breeding aliens, I tend to busy myself by reading the diagnosis sheet and making myself laugh. Here are some of Monday's highlights:

Pessary fitting: "Sure is hard to get them pigs to stay still so you can measure 'em right."
Oligospermia cup: "Would you like to supersize that?"
Skin tag removal up to 15: "Now THAT's a bargain!"
Ova/parasites: "I hope the nurse washes her hands between patients."
Mixed incontinence: "Great with lime."
Hepatic function panel: "Please press start to activate your liver."
Laminaria/prostaglandin: "I saw that tour last month."
Molluscum contagiosum "You gotta watch those clams; they're catching."
Molar pregnancy: "What a toothache that was!"
Large for dates: "Hard to find a skinny girlfriend these days."
PUPPS: "They're cute until they pee on the rug."
Nipple yeast: "Thankyougoodnight."

Perfect Music for Working on a Sunday Night

2009-04-05T22:43:00.003-05:00

Soilent Green's Pussysoul, namely "The Wrong of Way". You tell 'em, Ben.

The Wrong Of Way

Get out of my fucking way
I don't have room or time for you
Waste of shit, you'll never amount to anything
Stuck in the same deadend spot.
Never helping yourself, so no reason for me to help you
What will you do when there isn't anyone
To blame your laziness on?
When you're in a bind, you look for all sorts of help.
Don't even look my way.
Look my way, and all I'll do is laugh as you go down
While others pass you by.
Others bust their ass while you sit somewhere and relax.
Too bad you'll just end up last
No respect for others who do what they're told
Leave me hanging on to drag your ass down, too.
No respect for others who do what they're told
Leave me hanging with no respect
And I'll have your ass hanging on a cross.
The wrong of way is all you've learned
No concept of the right way world
The wrong of way is all you've learned
Changes of time lead you away from the right way world
Kissing ass to get what you want
Spoiled ass bitch, bastard cunt
Damn the ones like you who get their way
That way is wrong and I'll make sure you get fucked.
Prison life is where you belong. No wait! That's too good for you.
Think I'll just stick you in a box and in there you can just rot.

Work Makes You Stupid

2009-03-29T22:10:00.002-05:00

I've been trying for almost three weeks now to write an intelligent blog about two movies I saw during SXSW: Anvil: The Story of Anvil and Until The Light Takes Us. There's a really nice compare-contrast essay hiding in my head somewhere but I cannot drag it out. I've come to the conclusion I am having such trouble because Work Has Made Me Stupid.

I'm on a plane as I write this. Traveling to Silicon Valley for Work. About to spend three days running around like a rabbit with its ass on fire, giving everything hummingbird attention and completing nothing. Returning to an avalanche of unmet promises and unworked (but at least read) emails. Exhausted. Mentally brutalized. Probably ready to cry at the drop of a hat. Utterly un-metal.

The faithful who read my drivel will remember back to December 08 when I successfully attained my Project Management Professional certification and embarked on a new path in my non-music career. I've attacked it with zest, demanding a project to manage from my boss even though I had no one available to support my current role as Quality Assurance Leader. I can handle both, I thought; arrogant, inspired, well rested from the slow fourth quarter of 2008. I'll be fine.

I've been essentially working two full time jobs since January. I got my project - and an ironic motherfucker it is. Let's call it Project Echo. It's the reattempt of the same project that got me my job as Quality Assurance Leader back in 2006. The attentive will note my use of "reattempt." In other words, it failed the first time around. The day of go live, it was tidily quashed by some upper level execs. "You're doing WHAT?" they said. "Like hell you will." And thus, instant death. Execution. A bullet to the head. Oh well. Sorry we wasted a year of everybody's time and an assload of money. That's corporate life.

Fast forward to 2009. Back at Project Echo again. Everyone keeps saying, "Gee, this sounds so familiar." No shit, let's do all the same work we did in '06, except now a critical player from the first go round is dead and the other one just hopped a plane back to his homeland, never to return. Crippling loss of historical knowledge and skill. Who do they put at the helm? Yours truly. I'm learning a lot, but I'm also pawing in the dark. I'm supposed to be the Alpha but the veneer is thin; the strong can smell my weakness. I get ignored, disregarded, back-stabbed. I'm running around with my tail between my legs, licking at the chops of my more-skilled peers, begging for scraps of advice and knowledge. Getting my hindquarters bitten when I'm not alert. Feeling like an insincere douche while leading meetings, knowing these people think I know what I'm doing and honestly...

I have no fucking idea what I'm doing.

Now, Quality Assurance - I can do that with my eyes closed. Give me a set of parameters and I'll figure out how to test the bejeesus out of those systems to prove they work or don't work. No problem. I know who to talk to, who does what, who's an ally and who's a passive-aggressive rat. I can look at an error message, sit for 5 seconds, then feel where the problem lies. Idiot savantry, QA-style.

However, when one pairs managing Echo with a QA load unreasonable for even the most efficient worker, I can't do either.

Give me test parameters - I read them, but I'm distracted by how much I don't know about the players in Echo. I can't focus on the task. They read like hieroglyphs. What are we changing? What does that system do? All detail and nuance seems gone. I stare at my requirements and drool like a retard. My mind grinds and clunks, a stripped transmission heading up its last hill. Breakers flip in my brain pan. Someone asks me to put together a prezo for the Echo Executives. Uuuuuh okay... what the HELL do I tell them? Ummm, we, uh, kicked off the project. We've already blown our original timeline. No idea if IS&T's estimate on the work will come in on budget. How do I get in front of the major movers and shakers and spin this shit so it doesn't look as bad as it truly is?

My more experienced teammates give me advice. It might as well be delivered in Mandarin. I nod, smile, and grip the edge of the table with my nails, hoping to retain 1/10th of what they are telling me. Nothing makes sense. I R SMRT.

I force myself to attend Krav Maga class. I drive home, repeatedly running over the rumble strip, loosely steering, mind on things like Impact Assessments and Negotiating Without Power. My eyes don't really see. I arrive home with little memory of the trip.

I work until midnight 5 nights a week and I'm still behind, I'm still lost.

My head is full of cotton. I sleep like shit, wake up exhausted, coke myself up on coffee and then sit at my desk and twitch. Think about how if I ever actually DID coke, I would probably die instantly. Every day I feel my IQ drop another point.

I know part of this is the nature of learning a new set of skills. I'm transitioning out of my old way of thinking. Doing the same thing over and over in QA has dulled me. I've been thinking this way for well on eight years now and when faced with change, my brain DOES NOT WANT. This project management stuff, this future planning stuff, this learning how to deliver a synopsis in 5 minutes and create an effective presentation - it seems like it should be so easy but it's NOT. Stupider people than me are PMs. What the hell? What happened to my brain?

I keep loosely threatening to freak out, quit, and become a merch girl. I'll go live in a van, shower once a week and eat microwave burritos. Right now, I'd love nothing more than to know all I had to do today was to set up merch, keep track of what I sold, put it away, then lie cramped on a van bench while traveling to the next destination. Wash, rinse, repeat.

If I did that, I might be able to actually drag an intelligent blog out of my head or even better, some song lyrics. Poor Tony B, so patient and I am utterly unable to deliver on my promises to him.

This isn't forever, this work-induced stupidity. My replacement for my old role has been hired. By Fall 09 I should be away from QA and firmly in PM, no longer juggling both. Until then, I've got to keep bailing the boat, applying 50% attention to both roles without dropping any major balls. My bed. I made it. Lesson learned for next time.

I also need to not have a heart attack or a stroke or drive into an abutment because of my profound exhaustion.

Well... I set about writing this blog as a way to clear the overwork-fog that's been clogging up my neural pathways. Today is the first day in weeks where the words have flowed. It feels good, this flow, the ability to find words, turn the phrases. Last week, I had a day where I was so tired and overwhelmed that I could barely form a sentence. Too much headbanging? my sassy co-worker laughed, and for a moment I wondered. I've been mitigating the work brutality by going to every show I can manage, thrashing out harder than ever for in those fleeting hours, I am cocooned by the deafening metal and my mind goes blissfully blank. Hit reset.

Nope, it's not the metal. Metal keeps me going. Typing on this plane is brutal; my neck is destroyed from raging at the HOD show last night but I needed it. It freed me. Reboot by metal. Control-alt-thrash.

No, it's not metal, it's work that's making me stupid.

So guess what? That's all for now folks, 'cause I gotta get some work done.

Paying to Lose

2009-02-19T13:43:00.002-06:00

It's not often in my adult life that I am faced with losing. A childhood of "loserdom" taught me how to avoid circumstances where the statistical likelihood of losing was great. Such circumstances are those requiring:

Agility
Grace
Coordination
Staying upright
Ability to remember sequences under pressure
Telling left from right quickly
Hitting small things with an object
Throwing or compelling things into a goal/net/hole, etc

Team-based gym time in school sucked. I was the guaranteed out. The guaranteed hurdle-knocker. The slow runner, the slow direction-changer, the slow baton passer. I couldn't climb the knotted rope. Throw me the basketball and maybe I'll hit the backboard but don't expect any hoops. Pass the soccer ball and maybe 50/50 I could kick it towards one of my own teammates. I was the kid who would score accidentally on her own team. The kid who would run the wrong direction in football. In dodgeball, red balls would hail upon me like whistling meteors as soon as the teacher said go.

I was the eye-rolling last one chosen for teams. I was a LOSER.

In the last 18 years (christ, 18...) since graduating high school, I've forgotten what it feels like to get my ass kicked, to be the slow one, the clumsy one, the lead-footed dumbass. At work I'm the expert, cool under pressure, able to leap vast mental distances in a single bound to explain why SAP isn't populating a table correctly. In music, I'm regarded as a good singer and performer - I feel confident and am quite comfortable laughing at myself when I forget the words and nearly train-wreck the band. Socially, I'm considered at least personable and somewhat clever - I'm not the life of the party but I get in a good line or two. I make up for my verbal shortcomings by doing hilarious things like accidentally throwing my own drink in my face when confronted with something funny (yes this has happened, please continue laughing, resume reading when done).

Ever since my 2006 hip fracture, I've felt a need to confront my latent clumsy loser. It's always bothered me I tripped and fell in such a retarded, ungraceful, uncoordinated way that I nearly fucked myself up for life. So... enter the Krav Maga training center.

I've always been interested in Krav, which is the Israeli army's system of self defense. It's pretty metal, preaching no mercy or quarter to your attacker. Neutralize the threat. My inner warrior has always wanted to know how to fight. Learning to punch, to kick, to do combos - these are all things I hope will help overcome my staggering inability to tell left from right in high pressure situations. Krav can challenge one's ability to remain upright. I have already been kicked to the floor three times and am slowly learning how to prevent that from happening. Remembering sequences... I'm getting better but my brain is still popping breakers on the complicated drills. Agility - I've hopped about more in the last 4 weeks than I have in the last 14 years. Coordination - hands up, chin down, elbows in, fighting stance, on balls of feet, abs tight, eyes aware... I can do three at once. Add another and one of the original three falls off. It's like my brain has only so many slots. I'm sorry, your inventory is full, please select an item to drop.

It's been a humbling experience. Last night was pretty bad. I felt like I did in 7th grade: beaten, spent. My female partner outweighed me by about 40 lbs and had much more experience. I got:
1. Punched in the throat
2. Punched in the nose
3. Kneed in the gut
4. Knocked into the wall
5. Scratched badly on the arm (I left bleeding)

I drove to Drifter practice sniveling. Doing the math in my head to convince myself if I never went back that somehow a year's worth of membership dues would be okay to forfeit. Playing the "I don't wanna anymore" game. Considering the phrase: "I quit."

Losers quit. I'm not a loser. But I did lose last night. If that had been a real fight, I would have been unconscious in the hospital today. My ass would have been kicked. I would have been utterly pwned and there would have been little I could do to stop it.

So, until I can overcome my poor coordination, lack of agility and personally shocking lack of strength, I will be the willing loser. My credit card will be charged for twice weekly beat-downs. A year from now, I will emerge able to turn around without losing my balance and throw a left-right-right-left combo without having to think about making "L"s with my hands. But until then, I'm paying to lose... and you know what? It feels good!

New Music to Check Out!

2009-01-13T20:30:00.002-06:00

Press Release posted today: New BRACAGLIA Tracks Featuring Former IGNITOR Vocalist Now Streaming

Former IGNITOR vocalist Erika Tandy has been hard at work with guitar virtuoso Tony Bracaglia over the past year. They are now proud to share two tracks from their collaborative efforts: "Live By The Sword" and "Falling Star." Says Erika of working with Tony: "This has been an fabulous experience. Tony's an amazing player, an inspiration, and very patient. I feel that the work I've done on "Falling Star" is some of my best ever. My hope is that the listeners agree. We'll certainly be working on more music in 2009 so make sure you keep an eye on Bracaglia!"

Check out the tracks at the Bracaglia MySpace page.

Old School Rules!

2009-01-03T13:40:00.002-06:00

Figured I'd write a blog while eating my soy-based kibble and slowly coming to after a very late night.

Got home at 3:30am from a great show in San Antonio at the Rock Bottom Bar: Hexlust, HOD, Militia, and Sad Wings. It was a very old school night in many ways.

The presence of early 80s thrashers Militia brought a lot of the metal hermits out of their holes. A lot of folks attending were old school: over 30 (if not over 35). Before the show, we had a good time reminiscing about who was a fixture from what club back in the day, someone's original and very antique S.A. Slayer shirt, and how Jason McMaster (told by the man himself) came to own a very exquisite pair of leather pants. Good times. A preview to what an average afternoon will be like in the Metal Rest Home I'm going to found.

I missed Hexlust, the opening band, but entered into Rock Bottom's steamy, smoky confines to watch HOD. HOD bring an old school type of speedy blackened thrash: think Sodom crossed with Morbid Angel crossed with Absu. Blistering tunes plus spikes and leather and a whole lotta hair. Not a balding one in the bunch. Have you noticed how novel it is to find a metal band where EVERYBODY has a full head of hair these days? HOD is a perfect hair-storm. When they all start windmilling, I feel like it's 1987 again, and I windmill right along.

Militia further enhanced the old school feel: great thrashy riffs and catchy, fist pumping tunes. The brush-cut sporting singer delivered screechy, King Diamond-esque vocals that really brought me back to the old days. The guitarist even threw in a fretboard-shredding solo while technical difficulties were handled. Around me, people milled, dressed in jean jacket vests covered in patches and studs, white hi-top sneakers that haven't been seen in a shoe store in at least 15 years. Old school is making a comeback, thrash is more popular again.

Sad Wings finished the night by bringing a very adept version of Judas Priest, circa "Unleashed in the East." McMaster makes a convincing Halford leatherman, complete with sunglasses and bullwhip and a good sense of humor. A common theme at Sad Wings shows is everyone in the crowd starts to smile. The show brings us back to the days before we had jobs, kids, cares. To the days when old school was just daily life: we put on our white Cons, shrugged into that filthy Levi's patch jacket and headed out to the local club to catch that awesome new band on the scene - who are they? Oh yeah, Dark Angel...

One thing I've noticed that really makes me glad old school is cool school again is the pit attitude. Some of you will remember an entry from March 08 titled "Metal is Pain" which I wrote after having had the shit beaten out of me in an effort to maintain front-row placement at a Goatwhore show. I had to beat a guy off me who attempted to forcibly remove me from my spot between the monitors, and a bruise I obtained in the melee lasted until mid-April. Interestingly enough, that was the last pit-based beatdown I endured this year. Something seems to be changing; pits seem friendlier, more considerate. People are picking other people up. Guys who make like Bruce Lee are either avoided or kicked to the ground then ousted from the pit. The beefy, shirtless, sweaty motherfucker who in previous years would have knocked me on my ass notices me during his stomping and bumps me only a little. At a Soilent show this summer I was concerned the 250lb bandanna-ed bro to my left would erupt into a frenzy of Ong Bak Muay Thai moves during the breakdown in "Antioxidant" but instead, he chose to grab me in a bear hug and beg me to witness the glory that is Scott Crochet on bass. It was funny, it was harmless. I can handle bromance. Bromance doesn't threaten to put me in the hospital with another broken hip. Bromance might be sweaty and a little blockheaded, but it's better than getting an elbow in the teeth.

So... hip hip hooray for old school: music, clothes, attitude. Keep it up, everybody. Let's get back to the days when we treated each other like family and not like enemies who need to be brutally murdered. Old school for the new era. Sometimes it's not so bad when history repeats itself.

A Very Metallic 2008 - HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2008-12-31T17:18:00.008-06:00

As 2008 draws to a close, I thought I'd recap what has been my most metallic year ever. Some of you may remember an April 08 blog titled "Commitment" where I listed three goals for 2008: go to as many shows as possible, get a tattoo sleeve and finish my book. Well, I made two out of three - the book, sadly, is not going anywhere but that's okay.

This was, in many ways, an amazing year for me. I went on two amazing adventures with my best buddy Norma (Iron Maiden and Ozzfest) and watched her transform from a quiet suburban mom into an ass-kicking, hard-rocking MMA super hero. I got my Project Management Professional certification, which was a surreal endeavor in jamming my brain full of facts it did not want. I made some new music and am looking forward to making even more. Most importantly, I made a lot of new friends this year - for the first time since being a teenager, I have a social network of my own. For that I am very grateful.

My plans for '09:
1. Have at least one or two adventures with Norma. Plane flights are cheap, my dear - where are we going and who should be scared?
2. Go to as many shows as possible/play as much as possible with Drifter
3. Continue to make music with Tony Bracaglia and Poseidon's Anger
4. Develop my more aggressive vocal style and implement it
5. Learn Swedish
6. Implement my PMP skills and improve my standing at my job
7. Take a Krav Maga course, maybe get a personal trainer
8. Brush up on my standard transmission and large vehicle driving skills

I thought it would be fun to list all the shows I attended in 2008. I wrote down all the bands where I could remember them - some shows I only cared about one band and subsequently don't remember the others. Sorry guys. My memory is only so good. I have only one regret - not staying for Infernaeon in August. I got their CD in Sept and it fucking rules. I'll catch them in '09!

SKULLGAL'S METALLIC ACCOMPLISHMENTS of 2008
Jan 4: Soilent Green at Red 7, Austin
Jan 26: Arsis, Warbringer, Goatwhore, Exodus at White Rabbit, San Antonio
Feb 29: Goatwhore at Red 7, Austin
March 2: Averse Sefira, Immolation, Rotting Christ, Belphegor at The Meridian, Houston
March 14: 1349 and Enslaved twice in one day in Austin (for SXSW - some outdoor shithole and Red 7)
April 4: Sarcolytic at Room 710, Austin
April 10: Toxic Holocaust, Skeletonwitch, Soilent Green, Hate Eternal at White Rabbit, San Antonio
April 11: Drifter at River City Bike Fest, San Antonio
April 12: HOD at Red 7, Austin
May 2: Drifter at Room 710, Austin
May 8: Drifter at Rock City Ice House, Austin
May 18: HOD, Light This City, Soilent Green, Death Angel, God Forbid at Rock Bottom Bar, San Antonio
May 21: Iron Maiden at Verizon Wireless Ampitheatre, San Antonio
Jun 20: Iron Maiden at Tweeter Center, Mansfield, MA
June 29: Possessed, Sadistik Intent at Red 7, Austin
July 6: Soilent Green, Chimiara, Dethklok at Austin Music Hall
July 26: Drifter at FBI #1, Houston
Aug 2: Drifter at Room 710, Austin
Aug 9: Ozzfest in Dallas (only bands that mattered to me: Goatwhore, Soilent Green, Ozzy, Metallica)
Aug 12: Soilent Green, Scum of the Earth, Kingdom of Sorrow at Red 7, Austin
Aug 15: Drifter at O'Rileys, Dallas
Aug 16: Disfigured, HOD, Rigor Mortis at Room 710, Austin
Aug 19: Disfigured, Manifestation, Infernaeon at Red 7, Austin
Aug 24: Testament, Motorhead, Heaven and Hell, Judas Priest at Verizon Wireless Ampitheatre, San Antonio
Sept 5: Drifter at Room 710, Austin
Sept 13: MOD at Room 710, Austin
Sept 15: 1349, Carcass, Aborted, Suffocation, Sarcolytic, Disfgured at Emos, Austin
Sept 26: Insecticide at Bonds 007, San Antonio
Sept 27: Drifter, Sad Wings, TMA, Suicide Solution at Red Eyed Fly, Austin
Oct 11: Nodens, HOD, Averse Sefira at Room 710, Austin
Oct 17: Nachtmystium, Vesperian Sorrow, Wolves in the Throne Room at Red 7, Austin
Oct 24: Watain, Ritual Killer, Withered at Walters on Washington, Houston
Oct 25: Watain, Ritual Killer, Withered, Sarcolytic at Red 7, Austin
Oct 31: Suicide Solution at Red Eyed Fly, Austin
Nov 7: Cro-Mags at Rock Bottom Bar, San Antonio
Nov 8: Dangerous Toys at Red Eyed Fly, Austin
Nov 21: Goatwhore, TMA at Ridgelea Theater in Fort Worth
Nov 29: Gojira, In Flames at La Zona Rosa, Austin
Dec 5: Capricorn USA, Drifter, Sad Wings at Room 710, Austin
Dec 6: Brujeria at Red 7, Austin
Dec 19: Broken Teeth at Room 710, Austin
Dec 20: HOD at Room 710, Austin

2009 will bring many lovely metallic presents including the release of HOD's first full length, the Maryland Death Fest, a new Rigor Mortis CD and a new Goatwhore CD. I can't wait... this is going to be another amazing year, I can just tell.

Many thanks to all you who read my silly rants. See you in the pit!

No Fury for Xmas

2008-12-24T16:26:00.003-06:00

I quit Fury yesterday. Just wasn't working out. One of those things.

The experience was good and the demo tracks we did were fun. I wish we could have played a live show but, eh... just wasn't meant to be.

Onto other things:
Tony Bracagila - check out "Live By The Sword" on his page. Am working on two new songs as well.

Chris Clark of Poseidon's Anger and I just did a theme song for the Rocky Mountain Rage hockey team. I don't know if they'll use it - sure would be nice. It's a fun song, kind of like "Rock and Roller Derby" from Ignitor. If Chris is cool with me posting it I'll put it up here and on my website for ya'll to listen.

If you've never heard the track I did for Chris, it's "Ching Shih" on his myspace.

And of course, Drifter continues to kick ass around Texas bringing our version of Iron Maiden to the hungry masses.

I've got other projects in the works as well. All in all, it's been a VERY metal year.

Wishing you all the merriest of Christmases, or at least an enjoyable evening if you don't celebrate the coming ol' Saint Nick.

Project Management - Even in Metal!

2008-12-23T13:29:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, I passed my project management professional exam. It was a 4 hour, 200 question multiple choice exam. Yours truly hasn't taken a test that actually counted towards something in 17 years, so this was a big deal! PMP certification is highly regarded in the professional world as it is a set of rigorous standards and methodologies that require more than just book learnin' to implement.

Project management is called "the accidental profession." No one really ever sets out to become a PM. You kind of just discover yourself doing it one day (like I did). Many PMs are what I call "instinctual PMs" - people who are natural organizers and leaders. They might not have PMP after their name but they're a project management professional nonetheless. The metal community is full of them. For a long time I've been wanting to recognize all the "accidental metal PMPs" out there... here goes.

Hats off to the tour managers, the band leaders, the management reps, the label owners with vision. You are the guys and girls who keep the ship floating when it looks like it will sink, keep it steaming in the right direction - towards that next tour destination or album or video. You're the folks who step up when everything is chaotic and calm everyone, smooth ruffled feathers and find a way to gain agreement on something when it seems impossible. You're the ones who remember to print hoodies for that winter tour and to make sure you have a shovel at hand in case you must dig your way into the venue for load in. You sometimes sacrifice fun to be responsible and make sure the needed things get done. People follow and trust and respect you because of your proven success and positive conduct. You work hard, you have vision, and you share that vision. You are masters at your craft and some of you don't make jack shit for all your extraordinary skill but you keep doing it anyway. You do it for the love of it, the passion we in the metal community feel for our music.

So let's be thankful to all those folks who are initiating, planning, executing, monitoring & controlling and closing those metal projects: albums, tours, merch runs, videos, festivals, shows. You make the hard work look easy. Cheers to you all!

Signed,
Skullgal, PMP and now officially certified dork!

Pop Goes the Weasel Part II

2008-12-17T14:02:00.001-06:00

Otherwise known as The Great Debate About My TMJ Problems.

Some of you faithful will remember about 1 year ago I explored treatment options for my bothersome TMJ dysfunction. My jaw was clicking and popping a lot. Very annoying and sometimes startling because of the gunshot-like sound. Options ranged from "Do nothing, maybe it will stabilize" to "Cut your face into 4 pieces and bolt it back together and even then you might not be fixed."

I weighed my options and chose to wear my already paid-for mouthguard, which I lovingly refer to as "The Droolinator." It seemed to help at first.

Now, after a year of saliva-sodden pillowcases, my TMJ is three to four times WORSE than it was when I got my consults. The manipulations during the consults taught me about jaw locking... I don't ever remember it happening before, but after the dentists set my jaw in a specific position, I realized, yes, indeed - at certain times, I cannot open my mouth more than a centimeter. If I try to force it, it hurts in a coldly sick bone-on-bone way.

Now, my jaw is locked every morning when I wake. It takes me between 30 seconds and 5 minutes to figure out how to unlock it without it making a sound like a .22 pistol. Jaw also locks up or gets stuck while singing. That never happened before. Horrible sounds like crunching gravel come from my left TMJ at times. At a Drifter show in September it happened - so loud I heard it over the stage blast. Scared the shit out of me. I'm waiting for it to crunch then snap in two - probably at a show, since singing seems to be a major aggravation.

YET... I still have no pain as long as I don't force the joint. No headaches, neckaches, no unusual tinnitus (other than the minor ringing I have from 25 years of listening to metal). Maybe a slight feeling of fullness on the left side but only if I really listen hard to that part of my face.

So... I debate. It's not painful but it's not right, either. Pretty much every jaw-related movement I do requires a circular "unlock" motion at the start to get that bone back on the condoyle properly. I cant my jaw to the right when speaking to keep from getting stuck behind the condoyle and I think it makes me look like a douche when I talk.

TMJ dysfunction is poorly understood. Insurance companies won't pay for treatment because neither the syndrome nor the treatments are proven. Anything surgical has a mortifyingly high failure rate (85%). My symptoms don't immediately call for alarm because of the lack of pain. But I wonder... how long before I finally rub a hole in that cartilage pad and start grinding bone on bone? Then there will be pain, and it will be severe.

The last two days I did not wear The Droolinator. Locking was minimal in the morning. Perhaps my condition has evolved to a stage where the mouthguard now harms instead of helps.

It's a gamble. I'm not even 37 so I have at least 35-40 more years of quality time with this malfunctioning joint. Do I wait until it hurts? Do I hinge-unhinge 20 times a day while medical science encounters this enough to determine an effective treatment plan? Or do I bite the bullet (not literally, that would make me lock up!) and start down the path of a new mouthguard, then TENS treatment to tighten stretched muscles... all at a cost of thousands of dollars with NO GUARANTEE OF IMPROVEMENT?

I can't decide. But since I know you all like reading about the slow destruction of my body, I figured I would share.

Happy Holidays everybody! I'll be posting some music related thinks and thunks after Christmas when I have some time off.

Appropriate

2008-12-15T22:01:00.003-06:00

After you die...
Hell

After death, you will burn forever in the fires of hell. Or much more likely, you will be put into a room with two other people for all of eternity. Because hell is other people.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Ceremony of Opposites

2008-12-07T21:01:00.002-06:00

Sometimes my life strikes me as profoundly absurd.

I spent yesterday (and the day before that and the day before that times 10) studying for my Project Management Professional exam. What goes in to a project management plan, earned value analysis, stakeholder management, the difference between quality assurance and quality control. Exciting shit. I'd rather carve out my eyes with a egg spoon. But getting the certification is important to me for some retarded reason.

When I was done studying, I met up with a friend and we spent 6 hours watching people go absolutely apeshit at a Brujeria show. During Brujeria's set, when all 4 vocalists were onstage screaming in Spanish and motherfuckers were flying through the air like some type of Cirque du Soleil gone mad, it hit me:

I'm just faking it. I'm not a professional. Professional people don't go places where folks are so drunk they stage dive into poles. They don't go places where a shirtless, sweating man wearing a Mexican flag bandanna over his mouth screams about drugs. And they especially don't go to those places and think things like "The project charter is external to the project team."

Absurd. My life is absurd. It is a hilarious ceremony of opposites and someday, my company is going to out me. I will be fired because they will have figured out that I am faking it.

And now, back to studying so I can still be fake AND have PMP-certified after my name on my business cards...

I'll leave you with a Brujeria video that trumps Saturday's show, but we had a couple guys like the diver at 1:35... enjoy!

Friday Nite Fun

2008-11-25T23:01:00.004-06:00

Gas to Ft Worth: $20
Room at the Hampton Inn: $100
Spending an evening with the Goatwhore boys: PRICELESS

I'd bore you all to death if I listed every awesome thing that went down, so here are the highlights:

HIGHLIGHT #1: Erika learns a new word: Bangover
Defined as: The disagreeable physical aftereffects of having just played a show after a month off, such as a headache or stiff neck, usually felt the next morning after the cessation of headbanging. Thank you, Benjamin, you brilliant linguist.

HIGHLIGHT #2: Nathan terrifying me with a passionate and angry soliloquy about why I should respect the life and work of Arnold Schwarzengger.

HIGHLIGHT #3: Sammy. Why? Because he's SAMMY.

HIGHLIGHT #4: NEW SONG! Carving Out The Eyes of God

HIGHLIGHT #5: The rest of the set... They played Serpent That Enslaves What is Worshipped and Baptized in a Storm of Swords, my two favorite songs. I was in metallic bliss. EdgeKrusher didn't film those, so I'll leave you with In The Narrow Confines of Defilement.

TMA, Texas Metal Alliance, also slayed. You should check them out. They are all very cool guys with a great crew of folks. Old school, like it should be.

Gotta say, Fort Worth put Austin to shame on 11/21. I'll be back again, that's for sure. Thanks to everyone who hung out, especially Goatwhore, who put up with my ass until 3:40am. You guys rule. Mwuah!

Bulls**t!

2008-11-12T08:30:00.002-06:00

News article: Stressful and Disturbing Heavy Metal Music Is Bad For The Heart

Bullcrappy! You know what's bad for your heart?
Unhappiness in life
Lack of exercise
Poor diet
Smoking
Drugs

For fuck's sake, let's apply study funding to some of the subjects above, so we can further assist people in making and keeping lifestyle choices that actually might MAKE A DIFFERENCE. The music you listen to is not hurting you. The double cheeseburger in your hand is.

All I know is metal makes me happy and happy people have better health and energy levels than unhappy people. Bring on the Hail of Bullets!

First Fury Song Streaming Online

2008-11-05T09:28:00.002-06:00

I'm psyched. See below!

Fury are proud to release their first demo track featuring former Ignitor vocalist Erika. Unrequited", a previously unreleased track from the "Betrayed' sessions, is now fully realized with dynamic, emotional vocals of Erika complimenting some of Matt's best songwriting to date. It's just a taste of whats to come from the Fury camp in 2008/2009.

Please give it a listen on the Fury Myspace and let us know what you think. Enjoy!

Just Desserts

2008-10-12T14:31:00.008-05:00

Sometimes a stranger tells you something that makes your night.

I was running merch for Averse Sefira last night at Room 710 in Austin. As of late, when work stresses me out, I threaten to quit and become a merch girl. Sometimes working with merchandise, living in a van and eating nothing but microwave burritos seems superior to sitting on endless conference calls listening to people talk about "enriching the customer experience."

So... I'm playing merch girl and quickly realizing folding shirts neatly isn't as easy as it looks. A gal comes over and sits next to me. We chat a bit and somewhere in conversation it pops out that I used to be in Ignitor. She says:

"Do you remember a show where a guy got up on stage?"

Oh do I ever.

It was one of Ignitor's last shows. We were playing at The Red Eyed Fly in Austin. Tensions were high as we loaded on stage; 500 gallons of water from a sagging awning had just collapsed on our gear 5 minutes earlier. Annah's brand new Jackson was soaked. I was half-soaked as I'd been standing under the awning putting on belt and gauntlets, when all the green, mosquito-larvae infested water had come crashing down. Disgusting. Nobody knew if anything would turn on. There were tantrums. It was not a pretty scene.

As I was checking my mike, I heard a man yelling. "Aaaaaay baby! Aaaaaayyy! You're sexy! Daaamn!"

Great, I thought. We have the rude drunk on board. Turning around to continue mike check, I saw a slender dude with very long hair and a shiny loose shirt come crashing to the front, hand outstretched. I decided to be civil and took his hand, hoping he was just a happy, friendly drunk wanting a moment of connection. He slurred something mildly insulting and sexist - I no longer remember exactly. In response, he received a sharklike grimace while I ripped my hand from his. Ignitor continued setting up while he bawled for us to "take it off, show me your tits, etc."

Brilliant. We hadn't even played a note and I was already prepared to kill.

Throughout the set, this gentleman proved to be the rudest person I had encountered in my 3 years performing on stage with Ignitor. If any of you have seen me perform, you know I like to be at the edge of the stage, close to the crowd, connecting as much as I can. I spent the entire set dodging this fellow as he kept lunging for my legs. The last thing I wanted was for him to grab hold of my bad right leg and knock me off my feet. At that time, that leg was still markedly more unstable and weaker than the left; I had not yet fully regained my strength post-broken hip. Dodging him was distracting and pissed me off even more than the continued cloying clamminess of my mosquito-water soaked pants.

At one point, I reached out to hi-five someone and he lunged again, pushing the person out of the way and locking onto my hand. Pain burst through my fingers as he crushed them together. He was strong, but so am I. I wrenched out of his grip and sent him reeling backwards, where he crashed into multiple people. Angry faces everywhere were directed at him. I could sense the tension rising.

Demonslayer - about 3/4 thru the set now. Dude is still screaming for me to take it off; I'm ignoring him but quietly wishing he'll do something ultra-stupid so I can see a crowd-based beat down. We get to the end of the song where I do a back bend as I hold out a long note. As I'm going over, I see chaotic movement to my left. A flash of the monitor tipping backwards. Crowd scrambling.

And then, he's half up on the stage, trying to get his knees under him.

Oh no you don't.

At this point, I was DONE. I was finished with this drunk person. I knew if he got a hold of me we were going to go down, into an amp or the drum kit. Someone, probably me, was going to get hurt, and at that point in my life, I had had enough pain for quite some time.

Lunging quickly, I planted my fist in the dude's shoulder and shoved backwards with all my might. It looked like he flew through the air. My first thought was "Oh shit, I hope he doesn't land on anyone and hurt them." My second thought was, "That'll learn ya, motherfucker."

I didn't see him land; he disappeared into the standing bodies and did not reappear. Ignitor finished the set. I was congratulated several times on dealing with the drunk. Some dear friends in the crowd had wanted to beat him but didn't want to be ejected... I can't blame them. It was handled; it was done. Dude 0 Erika 1.

Take Away: Don't get on my fucking stage if you're a drunken, disrespectful asshole. Now that I'm fully recovered, I won't just shove you off, I'll punch the shit out of you first then THROW you into the crowd. Don't be an asshole. It's not cool.

So, having remembered all this in a flash, I said to the gal last night, "Oh sure, I definitely remember that!"

She says, "That was my ex-husband."

"Oh."

"He says he's really sorry for what happened. He had a bad drinking problem. He feels really bad."

"I see."

She circles on the "He's sorry" concept for a little while longer while I listen and wonder how to frame my response. Then, A Golden Nugget of Fact falls from her lips:

"You know, he broke his sacrum when he fell off the stage. He was in a lot of pain for a long time."

Please cue the trumpets. I HAVE OFFICALLY BUSTED SOMEONE'S ASS!

Somewhere in the haze of delight over learning this horrifically rude person who endangered my welfare with his drunken antics got what was coming to him, I find it in myself to accept this second-hand apology. Dude apparently is in AA, has cleaned up his act, and understands the errors of his ways. I can accept that; we all make errors in judgment. I'm sure he is truly sorry. A broken sacrum is one of the most painful injuries around: everything you do hurts and it takes forever to heal. I hope the pain served as reinforcement to be respectful and that bad behavior can have long lasting consequences.

Yes, I am female. Yes, I am sexy and don't hide it. Yes, I am tiny and don't look very tough. But none of that means you may disrespect me. I am as serious as I am sexy, and as tough as I am tiny. I command and DEMAND respect, and if you don't give it, expect to get your own just desserts.

If You've Never Heard Me Sing...

2008-09-23T21:43:00.003-05:00

Hey faithful readers!

I've finally gotten off my ass and put some music samples up on my webpage. Please check them out. Autumn Tears, Ignitor and even Drifter can be found there.

Skullgal's Music Page

Fury stuff will go up as soon as the God of Shred (as in, Matthew) is fully happy with the songs.

Enjoy!

Don't Call Skullgal

2008-09-16T15:58:00.003-05:00

... if you're one of those car warranty scammers.

Really. I've had it with you people. You spoof the number you're calling from so we can't trace it back or submit a workable complaint about you SOBs to the FTC. Your phone tree automatically disconnects when I press 2 to be removed from the list and then you call back three days later. AND... if I press 1 and talk to one of the subhuman bags of trash working your phone queue, I get treated with some of the most amazingly rude behavior I've ever experienced.

Someone we know presses 1 then honks an air horn into the ear of the person. I thought this was a brilliant idea.

I don't own an air horn, but I am the human air raid siren.

Let's just say when I got a call from one of these fucking craphole companies on MY CELL PHONE today, the sound I made shocked even me with its pitch and volume. I almost feel bad for the girl who was on the other end of the phone.

Almost.

I know it won't stop them calling, but maybe a 114 db Skullgal Scream (confirmed with iPhone Decibel Meter App!) will make the people manning the queue start quitting. Pain is a great behavior modifier.

Now I need to go coax the cat out from under the couch. I'm sorry, Pandora...

M.O.D. D.O.N.E.

2008-09-15T12:32:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away... a little 16 year old girl's boyfriend put a tape in the cassette player of his shitty Toyota Tercel and said, "Check this out; you'll love it."

Frenzied chunky thrash guitar blared from the papery speakers. Over the din, a very angry man was hollering:

"Kill yourself, kill yourself
Why don't you kill yourself
Don't rely on no one else
End it all just kill yourself
Kill yourself, kill yourself
Why don't you kill yourself
Don't rely on no one else
End it all just kill yourself NOW"

That is how I was introduced to the force of nature that is Billy Milano. It was love at first listen.

Billy's envelope-pushing, often hilarious lyrics were the subject of much laughter and disbelief: "Dude, did he say what I thought he said?" Combined with the hardcore-thrash crossover stomp of Dan Lilker, Charlie Benante and Scott Ian, S.O.D. was a perfect melange of heavy, harsh, humorous, and hate. What more could metalheads want?

Over the years, I've returned time and again to "Speak English or Die." One of those albums that transports me back to a time when discovery of intense music was new and thrilling, SEOD never fails to put a smile on my face. After S.O.D. turned into M.O.D., I followed faithfully, enjoying songs such as "Get a Real Job," "The Hate Tank," "Theme," and the ever giggle inducing "A.I.D.S". I don't know a single person who doesn't start laughing when Billy cracks himself up singing the lines: "Fudge packing men, a manly mannnn, fudge paaaaacking men."

It was with disbelief in 2004 when someone from Headhunters, a Red River District club, mentioned that Billy Milano had moved to Austin. WHAT? To AUSTIN? And... Ignitor was invited to play at the Headhunters' New Years Eve party that M.O.D. was headlining. WHAT? AND... Billy was having a meeting to discuss how the show would run and someone from the band would have to go and I would be one of the people going. WHAAAAAT?

Meeting Billy was surreal. I didn't know if I should be afraid, intimidated, or just plain blown away. Sitting across the table from me was the guy who stage dove off the fucking super-tall PA on the Live at Budokan video and who went on to beat some dude in the audience with his mike - THUD THUD THUD. The guy who beat the shit out of Warrel Dane at November to Dismember in 2000. And he was nice as pie. Clearly, not one to suffer any bullshit, but professional and polite and cheery.

The show was great. Ignitor had a wonderful time and M.O.D. was a scream. I think they played "Bubble Butt" 10 times in a row. In June 2005, Ignitor had the honor of playing Billy's birthday bash. We did a cover of "Theme" and I had the honor of singing the song with a very drunk and sweaty Billy. To this day, the photo below is one of my all time favorite Ignitor pics:

Despite his reputation for being a hard ass, Billy's always been the sweetest guy to me. He's always been happy to chat when we've run into each other on the Room 710-Headhunters block of Red River. He always makes me laugh. I've made efforts to see M.O.D. play, unfortunately, multiple times I've had conflicts and missed them. A few months back I spotted M.O.D. on Room 710's schedule and cleared my calendar so I could go. Last Friday, while Drifter was loading out, Billy and I crossed paths again. He gave me a hug and told me something that shocked me.

"Hey, are you comin' to the show next week? It's M.O.D.'s last show. I'm retiring."

Last show? WHAT? Being in a temporarily retarded, post-performance state, I blithered something stupid but promised I'd be there. How could I miss that? The man is a legend, whether you like him or not. He made an indelible mark on crossover thrash, riled many a feather in his time, and made a whole bunch of us really fucking happy.

I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Saturday, Sept 13, 2008... the day dawned dark and windy, thanks to Hurricane Ike. I had visions of walking to the club in a torrential downpour. As it was, everything stayed dry until we were safely inside. Room 710 filled up slowly but steadily. Most everyone in the Austin metal scene was there. Billy showed up a little while before set time. I did a triple take. Who was this slimmed down fellow sporting an iPod shuffle and a moustache a' la Lemmy Kilmister? A very exuberant Billy went on to tell me that he'd lost 75 lbs and was feeling great. I was so proud of him. It was great to see him looking happy and healthy.

The stage side of the room was packed by the time M.O.D. was ready to play. I decided I was in the mood for a beating and got in position up front, knowing the pit was going to be brutal and I was going to get hit a lot. I didn't care. This was not a stand-in-the-back kind of occasion!

Billy clambered onstage and the band launched into "Red, White and Screwed" off the latest M.O.D. album. From then on it was pretty much chaos during the songs. The temperature in the club was well over 90º. Outside, it was pouring down rain. "Look at that fuckin' shit, " Billy said. "God is crying because I'm retiring." Someone yelled, "It's tears of fuckin' joy!" to much crowd laughter. The band launched into another thrashing tune. Beer was flying. The floor was littered with broken glass. Sweaty bodies slammed with frenetic, drunken energy. Billy tormented the front row by thrusting his belly into our faces, although one woman to my left was quite excited and started pulling up her shirt, much to the band's amusement. Quick on the draw, Billy offered her a feel of his privates, which she declined but another extremely drunken young lady happily obliged. Good lord.

Any Billy Milano show is not complete without the songs "Bubble Butt", "Get a Real Job" and "Kill Yourself." During "Kill Yourself" I had to make the unfortunate choice of singing along or breathing and staying conscious. It's a sad reality for me that I cannot headbang, take multiple slams from the pit and shout the chorus at the same time. Regardless, it was still awesome.

M.O.D.'s songs are quite short, which gave Billy a lot of time to talk to the crowd. The man knows he can say just about anything and get away with it. He's also a consummate storyteller. He touched on the Iraq war ("Fuck the Middle East"), the upcoming election ("There Goes The Neighborhood"), various band member stories (which required a short sojourn into "Sweet Child of Mine" complete with Billy doing the sideways Axl dance), and much attention given to his extended metal family in Austin. I'm proud this outspoken fellow has adopted Austin so completely.

And then he showed us his new tattoo. All of it.

Let's just say: it's big, it's complicated, and it covers his back from shoulders to butt. Jon Zig the Skingraver is the lucky soul who gets to shave Billy's butt each time he gets it worked. Zig, red-eyed and reeling, was cheered heartily for his dedication to his craft while Billy recounted his conversation with his mother when she called while Zig was working on him.

"Hey ma, I can't talk now. Someone's drilling my ass."
"Billy... you're sick."

They finished up with "United Forces" which served to ensure I left the club completely soaked in my sweat, crowd sweat, Billy sweat, beer, water and god only knows what else. What a great last show. The end of one era, start of a new.

Thanks for everything you've done for metal, Billy. Thanks for picking Austin as your new home. Thanks for deciding to take care of yourself so you can be outspoken and controversial for many more years. And most of all, thanks for being my friend. You're the fuckin' bomb.

Forensic Metal Geek

2008-09-12T15:01:00.004-05:00

...Otherwise known as Interesting Things That Happen In Your Practice Space.

I don't think there's a band on earth whose practice space isn't somehow embued with some funk, stench or filth. Sometimes, it's worse, sometimes, it's better. But band practice spaces are never squeaky clean.

Take Drifter, for instance. We're pretty clean. Stony only dumps a 44 oz Bill Miller BBQ Sweet Tea all over someone's guitars every two months or so. When that happens, we stand and stare at the disaster for 10-15 seconds laughing "Oh shit!", then one of us runs for paper towels and we clean up the mess. Nobody smokes in the room nor leaves food or sweaty post-show clothes hidden in corners. Our room has a mild aroma but overall, I've practiced in worse. At least there's not dogshit under the drumkit.

A couple weeks ago we noticed a funk immediately upon entering the room. There'd been a Bill Miller Tea Incident the week before so we figured we had some mildew kicking. I thought the smell was more rotting food than mildew. Curious. We threw out some moldering bottles/Super Slurp Coffee mugs with god only knows what liquid still in them, and Febrezed liberally. After 5 mins in the room, no one cared and we all set in to picking on Pete, forgetting the smell entirely.

The following week, the room still was funky. Not as intense, but still a greeny-brown tickle in the back of your nose. Whatever. The whole building kind of reeks from too many sweaty male humans, cigarettes, stale beer and equipment saturated with club filth. Practice ensued with no complaint.

This week: Pete, Stony and I decided to clean up the room since all the gear was still broken down from last week's show. We got to the room and YAY! No smell. I dumped my stuff over in my "spot" by the back wall and noticed some small, brown objects strewn all along where the carpet meets the wall.

"Oh YAG!" I screech. "What are those? Is that RAT POOP?"

Stony, unconcerned, replies, "Huh? Oh those. Yeah. Probably."

"Those weren't there last week. That's fricking naaaasty." I hunker down and take a look. The objects look too regularly-shaped to be rat droppings. They are all perfect little oval capsules. Gingerly, I pick one up and note the segments scoring the papery, brown shell.

Pete: "Ewwww, she's picking one up."

Facts clunk together in my head. Smell. Two weeks time. Papery capsules. "These aren't rat poops, guys. These are fly pupae."

"Fly what?"

"Pupas. What maggots turn into."

Stony laughs and snorts. "Poo-poos?"

"No!" I'm laughing now too because Stony's expression is one of confused curiosity. "Pew-paas! Like little chrysalises. Didn't you ever raise caterpillars into butterflies when you were a kid?"

Stony recoils, horrified. "No!"

At that point I launch into an unnecessarily detailed and far too excited explanation of what miracle of forensic entymology happened in the wall of our practice space. Clearly, something had died. By the number of pupae (approx 50-60), it must have been a rat. Flies laid their eggs on the corpse as it rotted (hence, the green-brown smell we'd been detecting) and maggots took to disposing of the corpse. After about two weeks, the maggots reached maturity then left the corpse to find somewhere to pupate. Usually, they bury themselves in the dirt. The practice space is on a concrete slab, so they found the next best thing: our practice space carpet.

I spent the next 15 minutes digging the little mf-ers out of the rug and vacuuming them up. If I had not, in about a week, we would have had a practice space full of flies.

In my geekery, I found it very fascinating. Made me glad for all the reading I have done over the years regarding forensic anthropology and entymology. And... now we have a perfectly clean room with no more PA cables on the floor, no gestating baby flies and best of all, no bad smell!

At least until the next Bill Miller Tea Incident.

Next blog: "Ozzy Said It Right"

Nothing special - just an update...

2008-09-10T17:38:00.004-05:00

I've had lots of blog ideas as of late but I just haven't had the time/energy to post. Been dealing with some profound fatigue which since yesterday has been a little better. I'm hoping the trend continues as imitating the zombies in the original Dawn of the Dead was getting [pun] tiresome.

Health-wise, aside from the fatigue, I'm okay - left knee and left foot pain has subsided, but my formerly broken hip has been tight and miserable. Working through it - walking and exercising even if it sucks. My doc insisted I go on a drug called Megace to treat my remaining endometriosis. So far, so good - no appreciable side effects. Had an echocardiogram to check the state of my mitral valve prolapse and right ventricular enlargement: MVP was undetectable and the enlargement went down from 3.2cm to 3.1cm. Blood pressure at last check was 106/68. On Sonata sleeping pills now - they are helping. Thank god; I was so tired. Anxiety - bad on Monday, but that was an anomaly. Haven't had a panic attack since June 22, 2007 (Why do I remember? Because it was a Soilent Green show and I was utterly miserable, trying to talk to Ben and not let on that I felt like I was dying). Overall, I'm in decent shape. I'll take it.

Music: Fury is going well. We have one song complete, 2 at 50%, and another in the construction process. Also, a couple covers on the way. I'd love it if we could be ready for gigging by end of 2008. Get ready for heavy!

I have been in constant contact with Chris from Poseidon's Anger about his new project which has grown in scope to an EP. Looking forward to hearing the music when it's ready and subsequently working on lyrical concepts. Chris rocks!

Finished some demo vocals for Tony Bracaglia, a very talented guitarist of the Yngwie-school of shred. One track so far - we're going to work on some more stuff soon.

Drifter has played a couple kick ass shows which left us feeling bruised and old. We're looking forward to our 9/27 gig at Red Eyed Fly with Suicide Solution, Texas Metal Alliance and the mighty Sad Wings.

I'll carve out some time next week to talk about impressions I had at Metal Masters and some fun memories evoked by the Cannibal Corpse "Centuries of Torment" DVD.

Horns up, good health and metal forever, boys n gals.

Don't Touch Me

2008-08-21T12:14:00.000-05:00

I'm a vocalist. My instrument is my voice. Unlike your guitar, my instrument is rendered inoperable when I am sick. Therefore:

If you are sick, you have recently been sick, or think you are getting sick and we meet at a show:
DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!

Don't bro-hug me.
Don't kiss me.
Don't shake my hand.
Don't sweat on me.

For anyone who wonders why many vocalists hide in the bus/car/van and then run as fast as they can off stage when done, it's not because we're stuck up and antisocial: we're afraid of YOUR FILTHY GERMS.

Please be aware your disease could cancel your favorite vocalist's next show. Exercise restraint and wash your hands!

Ozzfest 2008 - How to Have Fun Frying in the Sun

2008-08-17T16:20:00.003-05:00

This blog is overdue but honestly, I'm only just recovering.

Normally, I eschew all things Ozzfest. It's commercial and attracts a type of attendee I'd rather see staked to an ant pile than spend time mushed up againt in the pit. However, this year I had to make an exception: Norma expressed interest in checking it out after our resounding Iron Maiden success plus there were two bands on board I could support: Goatwhore and Soilent Green. Thus, tickets were purchased and plans were made.

Texas in summer is hot. Suicidally hot. As the date neared, I wondered if my alabaster hide would be able to deal with the brutal solar punishment. I also wondered about my friend, Neurally Mediated Hypotension (NMH). I'd avoided a date with that bad boy at Iron Maiden but my agonizing 2003 Blind Guardian experience is still fresh.

SPF 50 spray on sunscreen did the trick in avoiding solar punishment. I applied liberally, let dry, then buffed with a soft cloth to achieve a high shine. That shit is oily and I felt like a prize hog all glossed up for the state fair. By the time Goatwhore came on, I was already covered by a thin layer of dust which only got worse as the day went on.

The Goatwhore boys get major credit, especially Nathan. That motherfucker marched out in the 95º+ heat wearing all of his leather armor. I couldn't believe it. Good for you, Nate. You're a badass and you looked the part. Sammy was a surprise with a full head of hair. He spent the set nodding to the driving beat and channelling a Satanic Julius Caesar. Zack blasted the kit and Ben, all in black and sporting his trademark gauntlets, kept the crowd entertained by pantomiming most of the lyrics with his enormous hands. Goatwhore always brings it without fail.

Witchcraft from Sweden played next, but I did not enjoy them all that much. They were doomy, like Cathedral, but with less stage presence. Norma and I busied ourselves making fun of the ridiculously fat security guards, while simulatneously feeling sorry for the Witchcraft drummer who put in a great performance despite the continuous self destruction of his kit. I later found out no one had thought to put carpet down on the drum riser. This resulted in his kick drum attempting to walk away, his floor tom collapsing, and then various mike and cymbal stands falling over. Poor fellow, he beat the shit out of that crap ass TAMA kit and then some despite the technical difficulties.

Soilent was up next. The sun, behind the stage when we'd arrived, was now creeping to its zenith and starting to fry my back. By this time, we'd been up 7.5 hours, eaten almost nothing, and drunk far too little. I reapplied SPF 50, buffed to a shine again, then huddled under my white long sleeve shirt for protection. I wasn't really sweating any more. As Brian Patton crossed the stage carrying his guitar, we waved at each other and then I felt it: the "drop". A sensation like falling shot through me and suddenly, it was very, very hard to breathe for a few seconds. My stomach knotted; my head began to swim. My heart rate, already a little fast, shot way up. Here it comes, I thought. This is how it starts - the NMH combined with heat stroke. No way. Nuh-uh. I am not fainting on the barrier two bands in. Am not. Metal is pain and I'm tough. Or stupid. Or both. But I wasn't missing my NOLA boys.

After some significant leg bending and foot stomping, I started to feel better. The people behind me were clearly bothered by how I was moving around but, you know what? Fuck ya'll. I'm not giving up my front row spot over a little pooling blood in my legs. Step back and let me stretch. By the time Soilent prepared to start, I was breathing normally again and feeling okay. Not great, but good enough to make it another 30-40 minutes.

It was at least 100º by 1pm and the Green ripped through their set with almost no pauses. Ben was running back and forth, dressed more lightly for this band in white t-shirt and cargo pants but still turning a fine shade of crimson as he bellowed out the lyrics. I don't know how he remembers all the words. The man has an amazing memory. Ask him how to get to any club in the country and he will pause for a few seconds, his eyes ticking back and forth as he visualizes the route. Out will come every highway, every turn, every shortcut, and probably a tip on a good place to eat nearby after the set. He's a living GPS system in addition to a lyric encyclopedia.

I do think Tommy Buckley deserves the main kudos for the SG set. The man grinds and blasts like a machine any given night, but on that Saturday, in the blistering heat, his performance was heroic. Especially the constant, furious snare rolling in Sewn Mouth Secrets.... Jesus Christ, Tommy. How do you do it?

Soilent exited the stage looking as exhausted as I was feeling. I sadly watched them go; I wanted Norma to meet them but the whole backstage access thing was clearly a clusterfuck. Plus, I know how I feel after getting off a hot stage: I want water, stillness and silence - I can only imagine how much they all needed to rest. Therefore, Norma and I retreated to shadier places to find food and drink. 24 ounces of 7-Up went down my craw like I was some kind of shop-vac. My heart rate was still worrisome but I did start sweating again. We took shelter in the VIP lounge with its widescreen TVs and air conditioning. That's what saved me: after 30 minutes my heart slowed down to a normal speed and I no longer felt like something was going horribly, horribly wrong inside me. VIP passes: worth every penny. They kept me out of the hospital for sure.

We ventured outside again after a while and I came to regret not watching Devil Driver. They seemed really cool and I enjoyed what I could see of them onstage. We giggled at the various examples of human devastation walking through the crowd and made silent pacts to never, ever stop exercising.

I realized I had about a 15 minute half-life out in the sun. Back to the lounge. We met some cool folks and ran into Sammy Goatwhore, who seemed to have snuck into the lounge (Sammy does that a lot, he sneaks). As always, it pains me our metal community is global and therefore, spread out. I see many of my friends for maybe five minutes once every six months when they come through on tour. If I'm lucky, we get to hang out at the van or backstage for a couple hours. If the planets are in alignment, they stay over at the house. But still, it's always sad - you never get enough time with these special people.

The day flew by. Before we knew it, Ozzy was getting ready to go on. I've always had a very warm place in my heart for the Ozz-man. He was one of my first crushes. His voice still gives me chills. Ever more childlike and simple as the years go on, Ozzy embodies the pure enjoyment of metal music. On stage, he's like a 5 year old at a birthday party - all smiles and excitement. No worries. No cares. I believe him when he tells the crowd, "I really do love you all." I think performing is the only thing that makes that man happy; the stage is only place in the world where he truly feels at home. I imagine the rest of his life is a confusing fog of events through which Sharon leads him, dressing him up and pointing him in the direction he needs to go. On stage, he knows where he is and who he is. I still love you, Ozzy, you sweet, simple man.

A girl passed out during Zakk Wild's formless, wanking guitar solo. As in, lost all control of bodily functions passing out. Bad news. I'm sure the Frisco ER was HATING Ozzfest by the time the night was over.

Metallica... well, I'd only seen them once, on the Justice tour. Great show. Neck was wrecked for a week after. Even though they have long since diverged from anything I like, I have to say, they brought it. They played mostly old tunes and played well. They were my first speed metal band, and I felt as fond of them and their songs at Ozzfest as I did when I was 18. King Diamond's appearance at the end was a trip as well, although Scott Ian's hilariously excited air-guitaring from the wings was just as entertaining as well. Scott Not, you looked so cute with your pink Dimebag beard and big, goofy smile. All in all, it seemed like everyone was liking each other and having a lot of fun. Once again, it was metal camraderie between bands-bands, bands-crowd and crowd-crowd. I ended the night filled with renewed passion for metal music and love for everyone who shares this adventure with me, even if we don't like the same bands.

God, I love metal.

Poseidon's Anger - War of the Gods

2008-07-29T10:00:00.005-05:00

Another project ya'll should check out - Poseidon's Anger.

I wrote lyrics and performed vocals on the track "Ching Shih."

Many thanks to Chris Clark for presenting me with this opportunity. I enjoyed learning about Madame Ching Shih, a pirate from the early 1800s who ruled the China seas with an enormous armada of ships. She was quite the ball-buster.

You can order a copy of the Poseidon's Anger CD "War of the Gods" on Poseidon's Anger's myspace.

I will also be performing on Chris' next project, so make sure to check the PA myspace often!

I Am the New FURY Vocalist!

2008-07-17T00:23:00.001-05:00

Exciting news! Check the press release below!

Austin shredder Matt Fury has joined forces with former Ignitor vocalist Erika for what promises to be an explosive collaboration. Matt, who has been wowing listeners for years with his explosive Guitar style felt that Erika's air-raid siren delivery would be the perfect flame to put toward his tinderbox of new tunes. Heavy riffs, angry screams and grim lyrics will combine and detonate. Texas will be but a blast-mark in the desert as these two powerhouses set out to scorch the world. 2008 is going to go out with a bang if these two have their way.

Metal is Pain Part II

2008-07-03T13:21:00.002-05:00

Feel the dirt under your skin
Feel the filth work its way in
Feel the steel piercing your flesh
Feel the surge taking your breath
Feel the blood pump in your veins
Feel the rush that drives you insane"
- Immolation, "Tarnished"

The tattoo sleeve is unveiled!

This is my symbolic commitment to the metal lifestyle. As you can see, it's quite large and complicated. Already been getting lots of compliments (thank you) and lots of stares (go ahead, be bothered!)

I truly enjoy the ritualism of being tattooed: the designing of the piece, the contemplation of permanently changing your external self, the big day when you start and take the plunge. The butterflies as the stencil goes on and you observe and soul search one last time. Then, the moment of truth when you first feel the burn of the needle and know it's too late. What has been started must be finished.

I was surprised how intensely painful the outline was. At certain parts (the front of my elbow, inside of my bicep) I almost had to ask Zig to stop. Regardless, there is something deliciously primitive about willingly enduring pain. Immediate relief must be denied. The pain must be accepted and allowed. Afterward, you feel strong, like a warrior who has just completed a ritual.

I find myself wondering if I should have made it bigger. Wondering if I should put a big old evil goat on my right forearm up to the elbow, as a counterpoint to the Viking side. And knowing, if I do that, then I'll start going upwards until I run into the wolf on my right shoulder. Then my back... and where it will stop, I don't know!

Proof

2008-06-23T12:48:00.002-05:00

I know ya'll believe me that I was in the front row, but this picture is PROOF.

I love Norma's expression - she's having a "moment."

Check this link too, very cool review and more great photos.

Thanks Bodyguard Kevin for sending this along!

Transcendence

2008-06-21T09:35:00.003-05:00

Some people liken the births of their children as the supreme transcendent moments in their life. Others, their wedding. For me, the milestones of my life are musical, and last night's Iron Maiden show is a 2 ton boulder which will, perhaps, never be supplanted.

I always fantasize and dream about how I want events to go. Normally, they never go as smoothly as I'd like. Something is always off or downright wrong. That's just the reality of life. Not yesterday, however. Every single minute of the day was perfect, exactly as I'd imagined and even better, to be quite honest.

We got to the venue hours early to maximize our chances of getting front row. We were about 10th in line. Amazing - I thought more people would be there. Like high-strung racehorses we waited at the gate, bursting through the turnstiles as soon as the doors were opened. There was no delaying pat-down, no ticket scanner malfunctions, no people pushing us aside. Years of fitness training came into use as we sprinted up the hill and around the venue to the entrance, passing many of our slower, less fit metal brethren. And then... we entered the pit...

And those gathered there had only filled up one side of the stage, leaving the front and center ready for us to take! We were right in front of Bruce's monitors, directly in front! I couldn't believe how easy it had been. A minor financial investment in pit tickets, a time investment in getting there early, and one full-out glycogen-burning dash and WE WERE THERE. IN THE FRONT.

Holy shit.

The show was amazing. I already knew what to expect, having seen Maiden's first show of the tour 5/21 in San Antonio. This time, however, was more than just watching the show; we were in it, feeding off the energy of the band just as much as they fed off of us. The most surreal moment was in the middle of Rime when the light rig comes down and the stage fills with smoke. Visibility was reduced to approx. 2 feet. All you could see was pink and purple smoke, then a hazy silhouette of a band member here and there. It's hard for me to describe. It was magical. It was otherworldly. I felt like I did when I was 13 and everything metal was fresh and new. I still feel that way this morning through my fatigue and bruises and blown-out voice.

The community, the joy, the crush, the lights, heat from the pyro, the music and most of all, the extreme close proximity to my metal heroes - a truly transcendant experience. There's nothing like being a metalhead. NOTHING.

Aside from Norma, I think I'm the happiest girl in the world today! :D

Norma has a great account of the evening on her blog so please go check that out, too.

UP THE FUCKING IRONS!

On the Way to Utrecht, I Saw...

2008-06-15T15:54:00.001-05:00

Terrifying cold fish rolls in the breakfast buffet
Funny gray-black birds that looked like a cross between a robin and a crow
A black and white bunny lounging in the Breda city park
Shetland pony bebehs - many of them!
Omnipresent, cool-looking graffitti
and best of all...
A punker in full 12" tall flaming orange mohawk.

Wish I could have taken pictures of all but my iPhone sucks.

And... a quote from one of my European colleagues on the differences between American cities and European towns, particular the "Town Square" concept:

"In American cities you have town squares, too - except you put buildings in them."

How sadly, sadly true.

Weird stuff I have eaten

2008-06-14T14:25:00.003-05:00

Some people have lists of the drugs they have taken. I have lists of unusual food I have consumed. Sushi in all its forms is readily available so I am not listing the various kinds I have tried, although I will say in Japan I encountered a few kinds that kicked my ass and made me spit into my napkin. Food is my fetish. Sorry, male readers. I told you I was boring.

1. Rocky Mountain oysters. Not impressive.
2. Durian. Impressive and foul and I long to try it a second time.
3. Raw octopus. An unwelcome surprise.
4. Pancreas. Interesting texture with a somewhat unsettling overtaste.
5. Tripe. Very good in pho.
6. Tendon. Very good as well if you don't look at what you're eating.
7. Rose milk (believe they called it ba-dung). Try drinking a bottle of Yardley's of London and you'll be very, very close.
8. Blood pudding. Don't see what all the hubub is about.
9. Duck's blood in curd form. That was a little hard to take.
10. Jellyfish. Strange crispy texture, kept going back for more.
11. Pickled chicken feet. The toenail made me give up.
12. Pastry with duck egg yolk in center. Greasy and grainy at the same time.
13. Foie gras. There's a reason people lose their shit over this stuff. It's heaven.
14. Kidneys. Bah, grainy and dry. Probably bad prep.
15. Horse. Gamey and rich. Ate more than I should to freak out the people I was with.
16. Snails. I guess these count. Fuck, they were good. All green and garlicky. Best thing I ate while in Paris.
17. Rabbit. Wonderfully tender. Sweet, too.
18. Kangaroo. Tender but was drowned in "special sauce". Totally masked any natural taste and you couldn't order it without the sauce. Feh.
19. Elk. Rich and lean.
20. Buffalo. Richer than elk and very good
21. Alligator. Unimpressive. Perhaps if I can find it not fried I will get a better idea.
22. Antelope. Not a big deal, was in a stew
23. Deer. Great or awful depending on the prep.
24. Goat. My least favorite meat. Greasy and tough. Much prefer them alive and nibbling at my hair.
25. Ostrich. One of the stranger meats, starts out tasting like beef and ends up like, well, ostrich, I guess.
26. Red bean ice cream. Did not satisfy.
27. Turtle. The more I thought about it, the sadder I felt. Turtles are too cute to eat.
28. Cuttlefish. Again, the more I thought about it, the sadder I felt. Eating little cthulhu was not pleasing.
29. Green tea ice cream. One of the nicer Asian desserts I have had.

Uneaten but on the wanted list:
1. Any other warm blooded thing or part thereof not mentioned in the above list.
2. Beating heart of the cobra
3. Angler fish
4. Rattlesnake
5. Anything made with brains
6. Guinea pig (cuy!)
7. Stinky tofu
8. Kimchee
9. Banana grubs. Yes, those huge awful things. I would eat them.

Two things I have no desire to eat:
1. Fugu. My co worker had it and described how his face went numb and tingly. Not with my health luck. I'd get the bad batch.
2. Live octopus. Or really, live anything. It really does need to be dead before it goes down the hatch.

Fully recovered

2008-06-14T05:30:00.001-05:00

I now consider myself fully recovered from all my broken-hip related health adventures in 2006.

I went hiking in Colorado last week and suffered no ill effects. Where the muscles were cut from my pelvis to access my right hip joint was sore, but no more so than after a hard night onstage with Drifter. Those muscle attachments are almost always painful to some degree now, regardless of what I do. My hip joint didn't hurt or lock up. It took the beating of stepping up and down over rocks and through heavy snow quite well. In fact, I moved that leg more forcefully in directions it hasn't gone since before the injury and all was fine. It quite surprised me - I expected to be at least a little crippled after the fact and I wasn't.

Also got on and off a horse and rode for 2 hrs with no problems.

Pissy left knee and big toe did fine, too.

Skeletally, I am a go. Anxiety wise, just passed that hurdle Tuesday 6/10 by taking my first international trip alone. Last summer, the idea of getting on a plane and flying alone to Europe made me about want to vomit. In fact, I was less worried about this trip than any other preceding it. I didn't even flip out when I got on the wrong train at the airport. Normally that would have had me dry mouthed and shaking. Perhaps I am finally no longer irrationally afraid of getting lost... man, that would be nice.

Small victories you may think, but they are big for me. For a while I was feeling quite the prisoner of my own health (physical and mental) issues, and now I am officially back 100% and maybe even a little better than before the injury!

Okay then! Who wants to go climb Mt. Washington in New Hampshire with me?

A Note to the Dutch

2008-06-14T05:27:00.000-05:00

Some thoughts I had whilst eating my chicken curry sandwich (yes I know, you're all saying WTF? Curry sandwich?) today.

1. Curry is supposed to be spicy, not a profound absence of flavor.
2. Curry is not made with mayonnaise.
3. Just because you colored something yellow with tumeric does not make it a curry.
4. If you advertise that the curry is chicken, put some chicken in it then!
5. And last but not least, curry is supposed to have CURRY POWDER in it so it tastes like FUCKING CURRY!

My mission this weekend is to find a real Indian restaurant here in Breda and have me a nice hot vindaloo or roganjosh!

Europe - The Good, The Bad

2008-06-12T19:11:00.001-05:00

It's been almost three years since I've been to Europe and daily I'm reminded why I find it is both cool and annoying at the same time.

Annoying:
Low water usage flush toilets. Can you say skids?
The omnipresent hand held showerhead.
Turning on said hand held shower.
No alarm clocks in hotel rooms.
Single beds. Do they even allow these in the fat and sloppy US anymore? Glad I'm not fat or I wouldn't fit.
Smoking in restaurants. Marlboros + my curry, yum yum NOT.
Expensive soda pop. For a non drinker, this hurts the ol' wallet.
Hard water - also known as "how a shower can make you feel DIRTIER."
Soccer hooligans
Painfully bland food

Cool:
The Old Town in the center of any city. So pretty and full of life and history.
Holland has farms full of flowers. So much better than boring corn.
Sheep and hedgerows. Eternally charming.
Paving stones instead of concrete and asphalt
Buildings no more than 6 stories tall
Horrible fashion combos (yesterday's was brown short shorts and black polka dot open toe chunky 5 inch heels) that somehow still manage to look funky in a good way
Public transportation: reasonably priced, dependable, safe and clean
Duvets only on beds - no top sheets. So comfy. Love it!

No Regrets

2008-05-31T23:40:00.002-05:00

I've not been shy in this blog about stating how awful both my parents were. My dad was a mentally ill, violent and lazy drunk. My mother was a cringing, agoraphobic, broken Catholic with her own family history of alcoholism. Somehow they created a child who at age three knew her parents were fucked, that normal households didn't function the way hers did. Every day, I thank my stars for that awareness, because without it I'm sure I could have turned into a drug-abusing, teenage mother with no hope and no future. The hillbilly banjos wouldn't be just playing faintly in the background; they'd be clanging away front and center with a blown-out me in the spotlight, dressed in ragged jeans and a wolf t-shirt, two or three snot-nosed kids dragging on my arms.

I knew I NEVER, EVER wanted to be like the people who begat me.

The last time I spoke to my father was when he was kicking me out of my house in 1991, for no other reason than I refused to read the Bible with him and because I was demanding he pay for some very expensive medical tests I'd had to have (you know, like most parents will do when their child is in college and only makes $50 a week). I asked for him to give me my stereo, he refused, I said I'd come and take it when he wasn't there, and then he threatened to shoot me dead "like a common criminal." Nuff said. Let's not forget this was the same man who allowed his family to go cold and hungry when he always had beer and the dogs had food. The man who thought nothing of dropping $250 on a Russian rifle while his child depended on hand-me-downs from her cousin to be clothed. A man who thought it was fun to snap huge industrial rubber bands at his child, leaving large bruises and welts on her legs, because he thought it was FUNNY.

The last time I saw him was in a court; I sued him for my own child support because my mother was too weak willed to fight for me.

I never looked back as I was leaving that courtroom. I could feel his eyes boring into my back after the judge gave his decision (in my favor, thank you). I walked out proud and tall. I'd used the system as it was supposed to be used and gotten a small share of what I had coming to me. I wrote my dad off in completion at that moment.

I had no regrets.

Over the years, I've wondered about him but only like you might wonder about what George Clooney or Brad Pitt is doing. Somebody you know about but don't really know. Casual, fleeting thoughts. Somewhere out there, I have a dad... but, to quote Immolation, "I feel nothing." My relationship with my mother was such a mess that I had no desire nor room in my head for the chaos knowing my father again would bring. After my mother's death, I finally felt free of both of them. I hadn't seen her in 10 years, and hadn't seen my dad in 14. Both of them done, gone, out of my life. I stand like Aphrodite, sprung from the seafoam, alone on the ocean of my existence. I have no parents. I came from the cold deeps, not from flesh. The only legacy I have of the two of them are their physical traits, anxiety problems and my shit genetics.

The last two years have been really great in regards to the subject of parents. I love my husband's parents and family. I have adopted them as my own. It's nice to finally have a real family in my mid-thirties. I am complete and satisfied in that aspect.

Tonight, the phone rang. At 8:10pm on a Saturday the only person calling my house phone is either a wrong number or a telemarketer.

"Hello?" I answered in my best, "You'd better not be fucking trying to sell me anything" voice.

"Hi, is this Erika?" A older man's voice. Something twanged in my brain, something familiar about it. I know this person but I don't remember from where. And he knows me.

"Is this Erika Swinnich?"

Now my radar was on. I'm thinking crafty telemarketer now. "Who's calling?" I asked coldly.

"This is Gordon Krystaf."

My dad.

Without another word, I slammed the phone in the cradle. Not out of fear. No, it was more like being able to close a Pandora's Box before the screaming demons escaped.

I don't want to know. I wrote the last word in that chapter of my life when I walked out of that courthouse in 1992. It's been done, written, and growing mold since then. Let it decay into dust, and with a soft breath be blown away into the wind to be forever gone.

"I've smiled too many times to cover up my discomfort
Never again... not anymore." - Soilent Green, Cold Steel Kiss

No regrets.

A Personal Best

2008-05-30T23:50:00.002-05:00

Went to the pool today and decided to knock out that mile. Took me an hour and 76 laps, but I did it!

Am thinking when the summer work madness settles down, I may sign up for a good krav maga course. Like Norma, I'm interested in learning how to use found objects as weapons. Might be a good thing, might not...

Testing Limits

2008-05-30T00:26:00.002-05:00

The past 8 weeks or so have been an exercise in testing limits.

My job as a testing coordinator/quality assurance program manager is pushing the limits of my mental and physical endurance. I'm currently working a night schedule in lieu of being in Singapore. While I love S'pore, I had some other important things to do, like go to the doctor and attend the Soilent Green/God Forbid/Death Angel show in San An a couple weeks back, and then Iron Maiden in San An. Sorry, metal comes first... and I'm so glad I made this choice. Wouldn't miss Soilent or Maiden for anything.

Now I'm working from approx 2pm to 3am with a couple hour breaks thrown in. It's starting to wear on me - last night I didn't fall asleep until 5:15am or so. The fucking sun was coming up. Sucked. I'm cranky and keep having fits of intense anger then intense depression. I have to hang in until 6/2.

On 6/3, I flip back to a day schedule as we're off to Buena Vista in Colorado to do some hiking and horseback riding. Not only will switching my schedule be a challenge, but this will be the first hike since breaking my hip. I have no idea how I'm going to fare. I'm in top physical condition aerobically, but I'm worried about my increasingly pissy joints. Guess I'll load up on the ibuprofen before we even start.

I'll come back from CO on Saturday 6/7 then on 6/10, fly to Amsterdam to work my ass off until 6/18. Again, another schedule flip. By this time, I ought to be so stressed out I'll be drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes with my Dutch colleague. Maybe I'll even start drinking.

As the capper to the insanity, I fly back on 6/18 and then on 6/19 hop a plane to Boston to go hang with Norma for a few days and try to get myself killed in the pit at Maiden on 6/20.

Then I return to a huge project kicking off and multiple bucketloads of shit hitting the fan, I'm sure.

So... testing the limits of what the body can take in regards to time schedules.

In addition...

I'm working on new music for Matt Fury, an excellent shredding guitarist based here in Austin. We're supposed to be getting together this weekend if all goes well. Have 1.5 songs done already. I'm also batting ideas around with another fellow in Florida. Exciting, but will someone remind me why I think I have the time for this?

I'm finalizing my tattoo design tomorrow and if I can arrange it, will get it started after I come back from CO and before I leave for Amsterdam. Metal is pain, people. Fuck yeah.

I'm also continuing to work out extra hard and have lost about 5lbs. Have taken up swimming again now that I finally don't have any open incisions. Plan to reach a goal of 75 laps in one session (i.e., a mile) before summer's out.

Will continue to attend as many shows as possible and play as many as Drifter can get.

I'm not writing this looking for sympathy. This is simply an exercise in logging all the crazy shit that's been going on in my life. You'll notice that my book is nowhere in sight. I've got my mental block back... am hoping that will resolve sometime this summer, once everything calms down. My life is so full that I'm ok with it going back on hiatus if it has to. I'm way more excited about doing original music again and getting back on stage in a more aggressive mode.

It will be interesting to see where I'm at come August or so...

Stay tuned!

Now, For Something Sweet...

2008-05-15T21:51:00.002-05:00

...to mitigate my last blog reviling certain humans.

Pua the Tamandua!

Pua and her pal Stewie are my favorite online pets. Go visit the link above for endless pictures of anteater cuteness.

Stop, You Human Termite

2008-05-09T16:23:00.004-05:00

This walking vagina is doing her part to mitigate the loss of life in Myanmar by shitting out more kids than a feral cat. Eighteen fuckin' kids.

Someone needs to go to AR and put this breeder and her litter down.

I'm so glad I got my tubes tied.

VOTE VOTE VOTE

2008-05-04T17:17:00.003-05:00

For my friend Jme, who is competing to be the next Sunsilk spokesperson. She's done a short clip regarding Animal Rescue. Jme loves animals and has rescued 20 dogs (some of which she never let go - they are so cute!). Please vote for her:

HERE

("jamie, washington" - you might have to scroll to find it)

Yes yes you have to sign up but come on, people - animal rescue is a wonderful thing and Jme is a really amazing clothes designer/artist and all around luuurvely person! She deserves to be the Sunsilk girl! Vote for her!

She is making me obnoxious yellow spandex pants with a black stripe a'la Bruce on the Powerslave tour!

You can learn more about Jme and what she does by visiting SalvationWare