In high school I had a huge boner for Korn. The clicking of Fieldy’s bass made me tingle in a terrible way. I revered Munky’s guitar as though with a single note it could part a raging sea. Seriously though, someone needs to tell Jonathan Davis that childhood rape victims only get one cathartic release of emotional anguish. As near as I can tell he’s been milking the same childhood trauma for songwriting material for over 10 years now.
We’ve all done things we shouldn’t have. Maybe we cheated on a physics test, or maybe we sold our copy of Nights even though it was the version that came with that special controller and said Not For Resale right on the cd. My confession: I once shoplifted a pack of Magic: The Gathering cards. Not because I played Magic but because the artwork was fun to look at while tripping on valkyr.
The radio was playing Paradise City. Music reminded me that man was a noble creature who lived in vivid shades of emotion and in his dreams charted the heavens and all that lay beyond. I listened intently as Axl and Izzy’s voices wrapped around each other like two doomed lovers. Fun Fact: Growing up on the mean streets of LA, Axl Rose walked by a crackhouse every day ...on his way to another crackhouse.
The girl I liked was a goddess. Her temple was laden with deadly traps and other assorted hazards that had stopped many a hearty adventurer dead in their tracks. Something in the way she smiled at me told me I’d always just be her geeky friend. And while we’re on the subject of my geekiness, here’s a screenshot of me playing Quake 2 with 3drealms level designer Eric Von Rothkirch.
C and I listened to a Marilyn Manson cd.
"I don’t think our nation’s children should be listening to this." C said.
"You’re right." I said. "I mean there’s hardly any dynamic range in the recording and the vocals clip horribly. It’s exactly the sort of production that ruined Nevermind."
I played Quake 2. In user-created Quake 2 levels I found proof that ordinary lives could be the subject of great art. My favorite Quake 2 level was spogsp1. Every time I played it I found another reason to suspect that William Joseph was Jesus using a pseudonym.
I listened to another cd. In the world of robot music a new hit band emerges every .003 seconds. The band then begins a 5 second descent into drug abuse during which they’ll hit their inevitable artistic nadir. Fast forward another 5 seconds to the release of the band’s improbable comeback album which contains startling insights on life and aging.
I browsed the internet. The internet was a godsend for anyone whose interests gravitated toward the sick and perverse. I could recall with crystal clarity every bondage related moment from every tv show I had ever seen. I had once considered converting this knowledge into an internet database but a search of Portal of Evil revealed it had already been done.
I listened to The Downward Spiral. I liked albums where every song was cut from its own unique sonic fabric. I liked it when each track was so awesome it made you completely forget about the previous tracks. The true power of music lay somewhere in the ether between the notes.
10:00 pm. I could hear the drunken clamor of fraternity partygoers punctuated by the occasional rape whistle. I wasn’t going out. Not while the earth was constantly being bombarded by cosmic rays from interstellar space. Save your strength, there’ll be another time. Han Solo said that. Something like that.
A typo in the Sonic The Hedgehog 2 manual referred to the mega muck in the Chemical Plant Zone as "Mega Mack". I had spent much of my youth wondering who Mega Mack was and how he had attained his mega status. I listened to the Sonic The Hedgehog 10th anniversary cd on the way to Mcdonalds. The frantic beat of the special stage music made me want to slam down on the gas pedal and not let up until my car had broken the sound barrier.
Sometimes people ask how we know when a customer has pulled up to the drive thru panel. Well, at the risk of giving away a fast food industry secret, it involves a magic talisman that detects spirit energy.
"Hey Jed, remember how the other day I complimented you on your giant goiter, saying how it was perfectly formed and went well with your prominent Adam’s apple?" my manger Patty said. "Well, that’s the friendly sort of tone you should use when greeting the customers."
We had a battered ceramic bust of Ronald Mcdonald strapped to the hood of our post-apocalyptic death car. Tell me again how hard it is being the bastard son of a thousand hipsters. I always hung out with you as much as my superiority complex would allow. There’s one thing I should mention, though: I could always taste the algorithms behind every quirky mannerism and witty remark. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to spread this pollen.
The end of the movie found me groggily staggering to my feet, two hours older and filled with popcorn and urine. Gone was the sense of wonder, the thrill of movie magic that had beckoned to me in the trailer. I checked the time on my cell phone and walked toward the exit.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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