Herzeleid

Today I found out some monumental news, for me anyway. My most beloved band, Rammstein, the kings of depraved brutality, are actually coming to the US! One show only, December 11th, New York City, in Madison Square Garden. It's going to be spectacular! Fire and explosions, German metal, and none to soon. It's been nearly a decade since they last visited, and us fans have been chomping at the bit the get them back here in the US. It's a huge deal in the US fan community.

The last time I saw them live was on the Mutter World Tour, at the Pageant on July 12th, 2001. This was my first concert, and it really set the bar for every show I have since attended. I was bombarded with strange images, smells, feelings. Ingenious costumes, complete with lights and flares to fit the opening song of Mein Herz Brennt. I felt what it was like to be crushed against my fellow fan for the closest glimpse I could get to the band. Maniacal acts of pyrotechnics filled the entire auditorium with fear. This particular scene stays branded in my memory forever.

Till had just started the "flaming metal jacket" act, when something went wrong. His leg caught aflame, which made stagehands run out to get the metal garment off of him, before more damage could be done. Flake left and reappeared with a fire extinguisher, which he promptly discharged at Till. He burst into a massive fireball. Over and again Flake kept firing, and the flames grew larger. Before we knew it, Till was curled on the stage, badly burnt and smoldering. Someone behind me shouted "Somebody call 911!" Shaking, Till stands up. His hand reaches up to the bottom of his charred face, and peels a mask upwards and off. Perfectly fine, Till resumes the song.

This kind of showmanship is the most extreme possible statement of a band's art. Madison Square Garden is going to be a landmark in metal history. I couldn't be more excited!

And I can't go.

It's heart-rending. The show takes place the night before the largest event of the year at my place of work. We call in volunteers just to keep up with everything. No one gets this day off. No one. The show would ostensibly end approximately 3 hours before that hell-shift begins. There's no way to get back from New York to St. Louis in that amount of time. Going to this show, this personal world-changing experience, and keeping my job, a partial bane of my existence, are mutually exclusive.

I know it's just a concert, and in these times it's important to be stably employed, but a lot of people misunderstand how important this band is for me. They were my soundtrack to high school. They were there for my first girlfriend, my first breakup, and my first exploration into the real world. They were my first concert ever. This band is as important to me, as the Beatles were to modern music. Yeah, it's like that. I'm not the biggest fan, but I am an active fan. The petitions, fan letters, the records sales, everything paid off; we convinced them that there was just enough of a fan base here in the States to bring them back one last time, and now I can't go.

I have been planning for this for years, and it breaks my heart that I have to make the responsible decision. However, what will be, will be. I am ecstatic that they are coming back, even if it's for one last show. I'm joyful that they remembered us, and that they decided to put in the kind of effort it takes to put on this show. I'm devastated that I can't go, but I'm very happy that some can.

Danke Schön and ROCK ON, Rammstein!!!!

-The0

Musical Rememberances

Have you ever been walking along down the street or driving in your car, when a certain song came on the radio or your iPod, and you're transported, almost like déjà vu, to a time when you most intensely heard said song? The smell in the air, the lighting, hell, even what you were eating can come into mind.

I love that feeling most of the time. Songs elicit certain emotions and memories in me, and they verify the places I've been in my life, the more outstanding experiences I've had. I have a mix CD that I made for the maiden voyage of Aschenputtel, and it reminds me fondly of the winter where I got to know her. Emilie Autumn's Opheliac takes me back to the slower, less stressful times of last winter. There are also the songs that take me back to darker times, and rougher emotions. They are just as cherished, strangely.

It's a small thing, a little pleasure in life. To have a memory attached to anything so solidly gives me hope for when the ravages of Alzheimer's eventually comes to destroy my mind. Is there anything like that for you? Feel free to please post it in the comments.

-The0

Post 4, Base64

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-The0

The "Roll" part of Rock

As previously mentioned, I have obsessions which come to the forefront of my skull, become all I can talk or think about for about 2 months, and then, though still a part of my repertoire of interests, fade away. Usually, it's because such projects or obsessions are very very costly, require loads of free time (in very short supply, as readers have no doubt inferred,) or a vast sum of technical knowledge in order to get them to even come close to fruition. The results however, can astound anyone. That disclaimed, I give you the current honey of my th0ught process, The 1957 Chevrolet.

My god, I know I bend to obsession at times, but I hope this one remains part of my person for as long as I am coherent. I'm losing hope on it officially, in a depressed bout where I've decided I will never have the available cash to get my latest dream car, which in all rights, is my original dream car. I've loved this vehicle off and on since I was 8, I think. The 1957 Chevrolet 150, 210 or Bel Air. A beautiful mix of subdued styling; classy, and aggressive, like a spy with a sassy haircut, an ironworker in a tuxedo, a rock star in high society, or a nerd in a hawaiian shirt (not sure about that last simile). This thing is such a mishmash of personality and actual sass that most people, even not knowing the year, have to bend to its class, history, styling, and interestingly enough, progressiveness.

The avant-garde shape of the headlights, the generous helping of chrome on the bumper, the futuristic bombsight hood ornaments give the car a character straight from the front view. Moving over the lovingly angled windshield, we come to the beginning of the fins, curving down slightly to let you know they're beginning. Echoing the wheel wells, they play small hint at what's to come. The forerunner to muscle car styling gives straight back to a pair of elegant fins. Sort of a raised eyebrow at the massive airfoils that were beginning to adorn cars at that time. The interior, simplistic of the now, was modern at it's era. Smooth, sleek, yet busy. Not really deco, but I have no idea how else to describe it. Beautiful. The whitewall tires do no small favor in the fast-paced look that go straight from the blacktop to the ballroom.

However, design is not the only property this vehicle has to show for itself. Available options for it included air conditioning (a rare amenity back then), a razor for some reason (maybe to shave on the way to work?), a dashboard prism that allowed you to see traffic lights changing (so that you don't have to lean forward to watch them), and a couple of other things. It even had something called an "Autotronic Eye", which automatically dimmed your headlights when it sensed oncoming light sources. Internally, we had the options for power steering, power brakes, an automatic transmission, and the first-ever production fuel-injected engine. It made for the second engine to ever produce one horsepower per cubic inch of displacement off the line. Technology and engineering all coming together for a grand, beautiful triumph of form and function.

This car calls back to a whitewashed past. In a din of civil rights disputes, scandal, and the awesome birth of rock and roll, we can still look back at the faded posters and rust spots on our post-war glory, and remember how it used to be. If it becomes the death of me, I will own one of these.

-The0

Black and Red

Just before I went to college, I needed a way to transport myself. As I did not yet have a driver's license, and never really had access to a car anyway, it came down to a simple choice: Walk, or Bike. I had a high-quality Schwinn that my parents had actually bought for my little brother. He was already driving himself to and from school, so I claimed it as my own. This was my first foray into cycling, which was one of the costliest and most beneficial decisions I have made in my life.

During my sophomore year I began to ride with my best friend, who was a pretty aggressive extreme sports enthusiast. Through riding with him, I learn how to launch myself off of tall objects and then, while remaining mounted on the bike, land with the rubber side down. Everything was was progressing swimmingly, from skill to stunt complexity, until we started breaking our rides. We needed to find a machine that would keep up with our riding ability.

Since I already had a Schwinn, I had the old catalogue, in whihc I circled a couple of wish bikes. During a random trip to a bike shop about a half hour away, my friend pointed out a dual suspension bike just sitting in the store. About a week later, I was owner of one of my wish bikes, a 2001 Schwinn Rocket 88 Stage 4. Due to a compulsion which I will explain in a later post, it wound out being phenomenally upgraded, tweaked, decorated, broken, repaired and customized over the course of our riding careers.

We both had our bikes of choice, and this one was mine. When you ass spends that much time in a certain saddle, hunched over in a guaranteed position, you start to form a bond. I freaking love the Rocket. One evening, after a strenuous free day of simple stunt practice, my friend and I leaned our respective bikes outside of our fraternity house. I came back out to a horrible truth: My lovely Rocket had been stolen. A quick review of the surrounding area, plus a driving-mad-through-town excursion (I had gotten my license by this point) turned up neither hide nor hair of it. I was crushed. After hundreds spent and hours burned making it my masterpiece, it was simply gone. I couldn't quit sobbing. That was September of 2005. I still have a copy of the police report.

Let's fast forward to July, 2007. I was awoken one morning to a call from my old bike mechanic in my college town. Through his own efforts, he had distributed a description of the bike to all the bike shops within an hour of the town. Because of the insane amount of modification I had made to the Rocket, it was a total bastardization and amalgamation of cycling genres. A light trailbike with downhill racing brakes, XC drivetrain components, and stunt tires. It had shown up at a store a half hour away, having been brought in for service, presumably by a relation or friend of the fucker who stole it. The shop owner recognized it, called my mechanic, who then called me. I was speechless, and flustered out a thank you after collecting the number to the other store. I paid them to bring the bike just out of limbo, and then took it home a week later.

Later on in the following year, I dropped a massive amount of money to get it past its former glory, right into semi-pro condition again. I of course did all this through my man in my college town. Doing all my business through him for the rest of my life seems like a fair way to express gratitude. After all, I might never had seen my black and red abomination again if not for his effort and work on it in the first place. Some significant food for thought. What if I had done every bit of the modding myself? What if my friend and I never chanced upon his local shop? What if...

The moral of the story is multi-faceted. Keep loyal to your merchants. Write down your serial numbers. Lock your shit up. And after all of that, don't lose hope. Things that are taken from you are only things, and if they are truly meant to be yours, they'll come back.

Materialistically Yours,

-The0

Edit: 06/12/2010

I think it proper to add a picture, in order to really express the feel and love in this bipedal locomotion device.

C2H6O

OK, so here it is. My first, long-planned-finally-conducted drunken post. I have been wondering what a drunken post would look like for a long while now, and I think the idea for which I've actually been shooting has been to simply stream what goes through my head during these very frequent and very horrifically private times of inebriation.

Aqua Teen Hunger Force is blaring at me as I hunt down specific keys, Dana Snyder's clever interpretation of Master Shake believing again that somehow he is in the right, no matter how ridiculous the situation. Orgy's Vapor Transmission fighting for more of the sonic realm of awareness. It is winning, Eva winning over a magnificent part of attention from this current mood, feeling, and environment over to an earlier, more nostalgic part of my experience. I got this CD from a very then-close friend, right when I first moved into this apartment.

I've lived here for more than 3 years, longer than I've lived in any one place, including during college. Even back in Junior High and grade school, I switched rooms several times. This little overpriced hovel I keep now is my area, my home, my space. I'm going to miss the hell out of it. I know I have to move soon.

I think I am very glad for the fact that I kept a daily journal after the first 8 months that I lived here (14 month total of writing IN that journal, 8 months after I moved in, if that makes sense), and then, right after I gave up that, I started this blog. I think it might be a very good thing that I kept some form of chronicle. For you see, with as much as I drink lately, from job-related stresses and life-stresses in general, I may very well forget my golden years altogether. That is the reason I try to make it a point to get a regular number of posts out. To at least get a regular record of my experience out. This weblog isn't for all of you, you see, not to disregard my readership where it exists. This is for me to keep track of and categorize my memories for all time.

They say that once something is posted to the internet, it can never truly be erased. As long as electrons flow and hard drives continue to magnetically flip bits, I will remain immortal in my obscurity.

There seem to only be more questions at the bottom of this bottle, for the record.

-The0

Stitches

There are memories that each person has, be they good, bad, bitter or sweet. Some are a healing presence, and every time you think back to them, you feel better, empowered, and can't help but smile. Others are scars, reminders of hurt long or recently past, and teach us a lesson or refrain us a twinge of frown when reflected. Memories are key to helpings us be who we are, and I am pleased to say I have many memories over such a relatively short period of time.

I have one memory that doesn't really fit the previous metaphor. This memory is more like broken glass, stuck deep within the skin. Any looking at the scar lets me know it's there, but any scuffling of the area starts a new cascade of pain and subsequent healing effort to be expended.

This scar I got long ago, nigh on 9 years ago. It was probably through a series of my own blunders and assumptions, but suffice it to say, it hurt me badly. Psycho-scarring, and nearly in a life-ending way for me. This was folly, but it wasn't the end of the wound.

I made several attempts to convert the memory, try to make it from bad to good. 3 attempts to be precise. These ended unhappily, and the glass went deeper than could be retrieved out of me on the last of them. I lost many happy things to this memory, most again to my own folly, and I'm happy to see it undisturbed.

Recently, it got disturbed. Not scuffled, just scratched. I'm not happy about it, and to try and protect my meager façade of happiness and integrity in front of a warehouse of messy and hateful boxes, I'm not going to go into details regarding what exactly I'm talking about. It's supposedly in the past, and nothing can change it.

To sum my shard of reflection, I think I would rather have been in a train wreck than to endure all this. It heals better, makes for a better story, and doesn't cost you nearly as much.

-The0

Public Awareness

Radio Iodine. Have you heard of it? Not the radioiodine which is used in the treatment of thyroid cancer. The Radio Iodine that was an alternative band born in St. Louis. It was short lived, only pushed out one EP and one album. I recently came into possession of both of these collections after some rather avid hunting on Amazon, and I'm glad that I did.

Now, I would've been another member of the public not aware of this band had it not been for one weird thing. When my older brother went off to college, he left a good sum of his old clothes behind in his room, which henceforth became my room. I found a nice long sleeved black t-shirt in this room a couple of years after he left, which I started to wear around frequently. After a while I found that there was a weird crust-like collection of lines on the left sleeve. It took about 15 minutes to ascertain that this was no stain, but a logo for Radio Iodine. I thought my older brother hadn't listened to 30 minutes of alternative in his life, certainly not to my knowledge. I did the research then, found out what the hell this band was, and made it a goal to have their material.

That was about 4 years ago. Since, I finally found the CDs at a beyond reasonable price, and become a good fan of them. This is all despite the fact that they broke up in 1997. They have an alluring sound. Dirty yet smooth. Think Cranberries + Garbage + Megaherz = Radio Iodine. So I of course had to tell my older brother about this whole enterprise. The odd thing is that he had no idea how he came into possession of the shirt either. It was a total mystery to the both of us how that shirt came into our possession. Still, I had new music, and it was good.

Later that very day, my older brother had lunch with one of his old high school friends. They reminisced about the olden days, and somehow or another they came to the conversation of the first concert to which he dragged my brother. A small, simulated excerpt from that conversation:

'Wait, wait, I remember that now! Did a band called Radio Iodine have anything to do with that?"

"Yeah it did! I was really into them for a while!"

"Did you happened to have any merchandise from that show?"

"Yeah, I bought a shirt."

"My brother has that shirt now!"

My older brother told me about this conversation. I insist now that whether it was his or not, this shirt, through a semi-bizarre set of circumstances, has opened me to the small, short-lived story of a good St. Louis band. I like their stuff, it Audiosurfs very well, and it appeals well to any small party.

I'm keeping that shirt.

-The0

Wheat among the the Chaff

Or something.

It so happens that one of my best friends bought a rifle recently. But it wasn't just any rifle, not to me, not to him. He bought a Springfield M-1903 A1. After some serial number research, We found that it is roughly 98 years old. It's in excellent condition for a nearly century old weapon. Fantastic.

Now, for the reader's edification, I am a bit of a gun buff. I can figure out how to take apart most any firearm. I also spent 5 of the the most influential years of my life at a military school. It was a hell for me. This is the the very make of rifle with which I drilled at that academy. To touch it again brought on many memories.

I was a very confused, angry, ostracized individual back then. I was wierd, I was lovesick, I was violent, yet profoundly restrained. These things stayed bottled inside for a very long time, not many of them got out, well, ever. Bad times, then. Darkening times they were. I hate that place.

I used to work the armory at that school, repairing broken rifle stocks and replacing worn parts. Those were times where I found joy, to work on a finely made, though deactivated, piece of metal. I worked with my filthy hands and made each rifle I could get said hands on perfect as it could be, from the blade-style front sight to the butt plate. Those were the happy moments, that kept me sane. The S-type stock, tapering into the top sling collar, and the solid heft of it were all attributes I enjoyed. Needless to say, I put as many miniature modifications as I could onto my rifle. That was my drill rifle, and none were like it.

To hold one again was like meeting a long lost friend.

Congratulations Korenav!

-The0

Happy birthday to me!!

Yeah Buddy! I did it. I made it another year. I am 26 years old, and somehow I managed to do it without any major crap-ups.

I would like to thank everyone who wished me a happy birthday. Those of you who wrote on my Facebook wall will find that I thanked you all personally with a response wall post. I'm old school like that. I started on Facebook back when you needed a verified college email address to be on it. Your wall posts were kind of like how popular and well liked by your friends you are. So every wall shout was like someone thinking of you and actually saying hello, or Happy Birthday. It was like a step away from actually calling you up. So nowadays, people make a catch-all status remark like, "Thank you everyone for the birthday wishes!" Not me. I'll thank you all individually. It's the proper thing to do.

I got a veritable plethora of gifts from all those who were able to afford it, and let me say once again, it wasn't necessary, but thank you once again. All you mugs are great! And those that couldn't are actually just as thanked. It's great to simply hear from you all and to know that I'm loved.

My warranty on me isn't void yet, so let's get another year in. Thank you all!!!

-The0

A Credit List

They say that if you wind up with 3 good friends in life, you've lived remarkably well. I have lived a life of total luxury if that's the case.

Walter: Thank you for being there to help me through schoolwork, bike stunts, bad ideas, and good times.

Ben: Your pennywise sense has rubbed off on me finally. I'm glad you made me do your laundry back in college.

Craig: My first friend, your life is a veritable tome of accomplishments. Every time we speak, I feel like a kid again.

Matt: If there is a man more baddass and intense on a daily basis, I don't think he'd really compare to you.

Evan: Technology makes sense because of you. You make me feel dumb in a learning way.

Kurt: Music has never been more enjoyable. My instrument sounds great because of you.

Dré: You turned me from a brooding sociopathic boy to a semi-socially savvy man. You put me onto the path I am on today.

Adam: I finally enjoy being behind a computer again, like I did in high school.

Webb: I am of the strong opinion that everyone needs a mad scientist for a friend.

Renny: You help me deal with everyday. You help me feed my addiction, and keep me sane.

Andy: Every time I hear from you is a total joy. I love just talking about what's going on with you.

Gigi: You're the best of the kin, and you make me swell with pride everyday.

Mom: You help me deal with life crises. You keep me well furnished, and you keep me going with my grind.

Dad: My ultimate role model. If I wind up half the man you are, I've done very well.

Dr. Girlfriend: You make me want to be the best man I can.

Edits to follow, as I think of more things to say about the best people in my life.

-The0

Lucky Birthday!!!

Today is apparently Google's 11th Birthday! A joyous day indeed! Another annual celebration for a company which whose motto is "Don't be evil."Good day. It's a little poignant for me, because 11 happens to be my lucky number for some reason which I have long buried but quite vividly remember. Also, I depend on Google to bring me most of my news, knowledge, and general fact-seeking in this lifetime, so I'm very happy for them.

Today is also my final day of work before I finally get to enjoy another day off. While I'm happy for the overtime, I've been working my ass ragged and all the while, been watching others work themselves 10 hours more ragged. Is that an actually a measure of job skill? Or job trust? Or am I simply going more crazy? The money will barely stretch itself to the next paycheck. Through Passion I gain Strength, and I feel horridly weak right now. Thank goodness for alcohol.

Today, It ends. Girls and Boys, be prepared for a very pessimistic, hateful, irreverent,lewd, cynical and tired weblogger in the coming post(s).

-The0

It turns out Nostalgia is Vista-compatible

In my research for the previous post, I came across the Wikipedia article for Sierra Entertainment. As some of us may remember, the original publisher of Half-Life was Sierra, after VALVe was passed up by everyone else, being told their game was "too ambitious." A good move on Sierra's part, but it is a little sad for them as well. VALVe has utterly outgrown them since their humble beginnings.

I had been a big fan of Sierra even before then, however. The games I played before Quake and Ultima were all Sierra games, the old style ones. I'm referring to their "_____ Quest" games. I used to be able to tell you precisely how to get through Space Quest IV. I knew that no matter what code you entered in the time machine, you would go nowhere at first. As an attempt to get back even further into my childhood and gaming habits, I found an abandoned version of my favorite Quest, King's Quest VI: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow.

The adventures of Prince Alexander of Daventry came back to me with much difficulty, to my surprise. It may have been that I was still reeling from the nostalgia (goodness, it was wonderful to to explore those screens like I had before), but I don't think so. What is takes to beat an old Sierra Quest game was patience, logic, creativity, and an entirely different way of thinking. The game can be beaten in 5 hours, but the first time I played it, 16 years ago, it took me almost 3 months. I kept trying every combination of events until something new happened. I tried and tried, and with some help for the Sierra Hint line (that's how popular their games were. They had their own hot line with hints for EVERY game), I finally had it beaten, and I was so proud that I knew exactly how to put the pieces together. Now, I need a guide in order to even get off the first island. Oh well.

I guess the main thought behind this veneer of words is that it's easy for me to relive key parts of my childhood. I remember the weather of the first summer that Prince Alexander got shoved in the catacombs. I remember late nights with no progress. It was great for me to get back and feel all this again. Thanks for joining me.

-The0