LordGenocyde Death Before Dishonor's blog: "The Dreams And Visions Of The Dark Lord Genocyde"

Music has been the pervasive element in my life. I’ll admit that I’m an addict; a junkie of sorts. I can’t go a full day without hearing something either in beat, by note or chord that makes my senses come alive and strikes something within me, making me come to wretched life. This past week has been an experience for me. I can’t tell you how much music I’ve downloaded. I did that for a myriad of reasons. I’m too broke to afford the physical CDs at the moment. I need some of the music that has been requested and, there are memories that I wish to relive, though I’m still uncertain as to whether or not those memories are really my own. That, however, is another discussion for another time. Getting back to it, music has always been something of a mental and spiritual journey for me. Each sensation of the highest euphoria and every devastating low has been marked in song within my psyche. I’ve howled into the night with Van Halen, roared in anger with Pantera, suffered silently with Concrete Blonde and Stabbing Westward and have even screamed a loud “FUCK YOU” with Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson. I’ve celebrated weekends with Andrew W.K. and I’ve mourned the passing of my friend and mentor with Kenny Wayne Shepherd. I can identify each stage of my life by the sounds that accompanied them. From the fury of my teenage years to the struggles, triumphs and half-caste, malignant determination of today, it all has some type of beginning, middle, bridge, crescendo and finale. To me, life without music would be like a movie devoid of it’s soundtrack. It would be dull, tedious and perhaps, boring. Thank goodness for the marvels of modern technology. Just a couple of days ago, I loaded the folders full of music into my library on iTunes and began the painful process of decimating the playlist on what I’ve jokingly called my iPod Ninja. For many of the songs facing deletion, it was painful. The last thing I’d wanted to do was delete some songs to make room for new ones. Let’s face it, there are some songs I could listen to all day without worrying about how it sounded or whether or not I’d burn out on them. Maybe it’s time I upgraded to a four gigabyte iPod. Still, some sacrifices had to be made. I couldn’t very well fit every one of my selections on the iPod . What I did manage to squeeze onto the device would take me back ten years if not further. This is where we go on another journey. It's probably going to be maddening and I can't guarantee your mental safety. As Hunter S. Thompson put it, "Buy The Ticket, Take The Ride." We're going to hop around time and space. I'll appear different. I'll be different for that matter, and though it only lasted a mere three hours for me, it was quite longer mentally. With the iPod ready and loaded, I began my walk, hitting the play button, playing all tracks by album assortment. Van Halen: Balance This is where I started. There's always been something about the song "The Seventh Seal" that I’ve loved. Perhaps it was the guitars or the Buddhist chanting at the beginning that has endeared this particular piece to me. I count it as one of the many that inspired me to pick up a guitar. I’ve always played it while cruising along an empty highway at 60 miles per hour. I can’t explain what it was about that song that inspired me to cruise to it. Then again, I’ve never been able to explain myself properly when that song plays. The music itself gives off the feeling of flight. Though slightly acrophobic, I’ve always wanted to come as close to that feeling as possible. Right after “The Seventh Seal” rolls in the track “Big Fat Money.” I’m 18 again, kicked back on the floor of the bedroom with my walkman on, hair hung loose to my shoulders. By then, I’d trimmed the black out of it. I’m coming close to graduation and the sooner I can put high school behind me, the better. I’ve got aspirations of becoming a writer and I’m sitting there, jotting notes furiously in my notebook reserved solely for my writings. They’re playing a song about what I’m dreaming to make off of this material. By now, I’m a hopeless caffeine addict and I live for one night out of the week…Friday Night. Friday nights are spent about 45 minutes away from home in a neighboring town on South Ryan Street at Carr’s Coffee Shop, getting twisted on the mass quantities of caffeine I’m consuming and discussing a variety of subjects with college poets, existentialist philosophers and other highly-stimulating intellectuals. Each Friday night we meet there to solve the problems of the world. Tonight, is different…it’s Saturday night and I’m still riding high on the caffeinated whatever-the-hell-it-was I consumed the night before. I’m making progress. Dad’s hooked on their house blend. He’s not exactly approving of this measure that I’m taking. In his mind, I think he thinks that something’s gone sideways with my wiring and that perhaps I might be turning into one of those liberals he disapproves of so much. I often wonder how he and my mother have coexisted as they have for so long when they butt heads, politically. I’m skipping out on the coffee tonight, favoring the highly-addictive chocolate coffee beans that threaten to keep me up for the rest of the weekend. Dad, like the patrons of Carr’s are surprised to see an almost-nihilistic metalhead in their midst, seeking to expand his horizons. It’s a crowd I could get used to. It’s nice, quiet, relaxing and I’m learning new things like discussions over games of chess and backgammon. I’m certain I’ll never master these games but I will have the time of my life playing them, nonetheless. Many of these games are played while speaking of the disastrous consequences of the imagery of my poetry and what effect it’s having on the dreamstates of the audiences, given their nightmarish basis in reality. Something tells me I’m sitting on potential money, I just don’t know how or why…or what comes next. “Take Me Back (Déjà vu)” is the next song to play. I’ve wrapped up another day of slinging tires, playing in oil, busting my ass detailing cars. I’m sweaty, filthy…I probably smell of a herd of goats walking from Baghdad to Afghanistan and I’m just damned glad that the day is over. It’s 6 p.m. and I’m about to step into my car to go home. The sun is setting and, from where I’m standing, the city looks made of the finest gold. I take it all in as that song plays on the stereo. I pull the band out of my hair and let it hang loose. I’m very much in love with life at the time. For the first time in my life, I’ve been thrust into the awesome and terrifying role of fatherhood to a three-year-old girl. It’s my girlfriend’s kid and I’m sure she’s going to have something to say about the rugrat crawling all over me while I’m this dirty. If this were the ending to a movie, this is the song that would play. I get in, light a cigarette, relax behind the wheel and drive, literally, into the sunset. Fade to black, roll credits, wait for the sequel. Doro: Classic Diamonds Ah, Doro Pesch, my beautiful European siren! How many walks have we taken down these very deserted streets? How many times have we walked to these very songs? There was a difference to them, wasn’t there? Oh yes, your soaring voice was accompanied by the wailing guitars, throbbing basslines and brutal drumbeats of your former band Warlock and not the accompaniment of an orchestra. I’m sixteen all over again. Despite the fact that my friends are so fixated on Death Metal at the time, I’m giving new things a try and that’s what’s most important, isn’t it? I’m the only one out of the entire bunch insane enough to slip out at two in the morning to go for a late-night smoke and a walk. It’s just me, you and your band, tonight, my dear. Each step through these streets with your voice only brings an air of wonder to a town that seems desolate, without a soul in it except for me. It doesn’t matter that the ground is practically covered in ice or that the night air is heavy. The leather jacket feels more like armor. The cold can’t get into it and nothing can touch me as long as I wear it. I feel as alive as I ever have. The night has become a living thing and I feel safe within it. One day, I’ll play these same chords. Even though I haven’t picked up an instrument much less bother to learn one, I know I’ll be playing these songs one day. Of the few tapes in my collection, Warlock “Triumph And Agony” is my favorite so far. Each sound isn’t like your typical hair band. These songs have those elements that have been deemed “forbidden” by every one of my catechism instructors who have made it obvious to me that they knew less about the occult than I did. Damn them all, each chance they’ve taken to drive us apart has only made our companionship even stronger. It damned well should be! I have to take you with me everywhere to keep your sounds from the hell of the household garbage can. This is my act of defiance against them all. These people love their drama, speaking of the lies of their adversary but never speaking of their own lies. How many times have I exposed them only to have the rest of the classes listening, their attentions turned fully to them rather than their credibility damaged as it has been with me. Still, no hypocrites would come between us, would they? Their music depresses and defeats me. Their songs are dirge-like and the content is not that of celebration and victory but of defeat, tragedy and suffering but it lacks the will to go on, to rise above it and to crush the opposition. Your music empowers and emboldens me. I’m not some silent introvert anymore. How dare they sit in judgment of me for that! Their fear is little more than some silly and comedic pipe dream to me. Tonight, my German Songbird, it truly is us against the rest of the world. Megadeth: Cryptic Writings College days. These are hectic times and Megadeth’s new album is the only true comfort that I have during this rat race. Each day is a miserable awakening at stupid-thirty in the friggin’ morning just to beat the morning rush of commuters going to their glorious jobs in the Liberated People’s Technocratic Republic of Wherever. I picked this thing up at K-Mart a few days ago after seeing the video for “Trust” on MTV during one of those late-night channel surfs that I used to do with my dad. Upon opening the CD case, a card fell into my lap promoting a comic book series called The Cryptic Writings of Megadeth. I’ve asked Roland at the comic stand in the mall to hang onto a copy for me. I’m on my way to pick the thing up now. I can’t wait to see this. Being stuck in traffic doesn’t make a difference to me. Roland called me after my last class to tell me he had it and now, I’m sitting in traffic with nothing else to do today. No work, no more classes, nothing but all the time in the world than to sit in this Camaro with the tops off, blasting Megadeth, relax behind the wheel and patiently and eagerly await my arrival at the comic shop, listening to “The Disintegrators” all the way and bask in the aggression of all the other songs on this CD while simply waiting. Once I get the comic into my hands, it’s like stepping into another world. So many songs from the first album translated to art and story form that the songs now take on a new interest for me. To see an artistic interpretation of these lyrics holds some expected results and unexpected surprises. Seeing this visual image perspective interpretation leads me to do the only thing I know to do, ask Roland to hold onto the next month’s issue. Sadly, this practice takes an unexpected turn and lasts for only four issues, one per month. I had hoped all of the songs would be translated into this visually stellar artwork because I wanted so badly to see the interpretation of the newer songs. I’d hoped to see songs like “Have Cool, Will Travel” translated, visually, to be the same scathing indictment of how the recent school shootings were handled. I’d have loved to see “Trust” and “Sin” translated to see what type of story would have taken shape, especially the lines from “Sin” which I’m convinced are the best ever, “Once burned, forever marked/Hurt by just a few, but so many have to pay.” There was also something else about the album, a sense of maturity with the music and the content. My friend growing up remarked, “I dunno, man, it’s like they grew up or something.” I’m quick to point out the irony of his statement, as it was us that grew up with the music. About the only song that completely petrifies me is “Mastermind” because our technology is growing so quickly and I’m just learning about things like Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (aka D.A.R.P.A.) from which, we’ve derived the Internet. I’m hearing about the supercomputers that process people all over the planet through at least seventeen computers per day without provocation and, quite honestly, I’m worried because I’m beginning to feel as though there’s something we’re not being told. Dr. Steel Custom CD: I’m back here, today, the present. My high-octane trip down memory lane is over for now. Now, I’m walking along to Dr. Steel’s insanity. He seems to be somewhat of an imperialist rock n’ roll antihero and even though his music is erratic as hell but it’s just so much fun to listen to. I can’t get enough of this Marilyn Manson: Eat Me, Drink Me: This is about the end of the road for me. That conversation that I had with my friend about a band undergoing a maturity of sorts comes to mind again. Manson seems to have matured both musically and lyrically. Nearly everything about this album is different than the previous efforts. Still, it’s unmistakably Manson. I arrived home on the song “Mutilation Is The Sincerest Form of Flattery.” As for any memories pertaining to this album…I’m still making those. Conclusion: Exiting The Portal: I hope that you’re alright. I hope that you’re not too confused. I know this was probably the most erratic and jolting trip that you may have ever been on and I can’t blame you if you’re feeling sick right now. We couldn’t exactly control this particular trip. It’s the first of its kind. This was the experiment. Blame the iPod. That was the rogue factor. Going by album, it flung us all into the farthest expanses of time and space. It wouldn’t even surprise me one instant if you didn’t get separated from the rest of us and begin to experience your own timeshift. If you did, I’m glad you were rocketed back into this realm with us. I’m not sure I could take the mental responsibility of losing any of you to this maddening and uncontrollable journey. Then again, the uncontrollable part is the part we fear the most, isn’t it. It was that element of surprise and even some sense of danger that let you come this way with me. Still, I have proven something to you without a single doubt and what I have proven to you, without controversy, is that no matter where you are physically, you and you alone, have the power, the codes, the keys, the triggers to go wherever you like. You can be sitting in a coffin, buried alive and still be on the beaches of Waikiki if you would like. You can be at home and take a trip to the rivers near Jordan. You can be in your office and take a journey into the world of the supernatural. This isn’t the only plane that exists, is it? Dare to go in between worlds and learn how to manipulate them into whatever you want it to be. You create your reality. You define who, what, how, when, why and even where, YOU are. Open your perceptions, test your limits and feel as you’re meant to feel…outside the skin. Thank you all, I had a great time.

I'm probably not going to be a popular guy after writing this but then again, I don't particularly care. First, let me tell you a bit about where I'm coming from so that you don't misunderstand me. I'm a C.O. by profession (hopefully, not for too much longer) and I'm trained in dealing with people on a professional level. By my training, I'm supposed to be firm, fair and consistent. In my six plus years of working as a C.O., as many reviews as I've gotten, I'd say I've done a damn good job of doing just that. Now, I'm like any of you out there, I'm not a robot. I've had some moments where the professionalism didn't work and, I must admit that sometimes you gotta go outside the book. For example, if one of my guys has never given me a problem and has always been helpful in the dorm where it has been much-needed, I'm apt to grant a concession or two every blue moon. Hey, it's good to have allies sometimes and having a decent source of good information (yep, got some rats) helps ME to keep that particular dorm safe. Then again, on the flip side, those that constantly give me shit about how I run the dorm...I'm less likely to grant concessions. Why? Human nature. Nagging, insulting, arguing and generally being a pain in the ass when I'm trying to make my operation run smoothly...well, that gets the wrong kind of attention and it puts a real cramp on my stinkin' day. I don't deal well with that. Now, on to the matter at hand...Paris Hilton. This news sideshow has irritated me to no end. I've tried to keep my mouth shut about it but now, I just can't. I have to say something and present a few solutions to this problem which has reached pandemic proportions. First let's clear the air about two things: 1. County Sheriffs run jails. Even if the deputies caught you red handed at something, the county sheriff can walk up to your cell and let you out and tell you to just go home. That's his or her jail...they can do that. 2. Judges run courtrooms and nothing else. They can make a hell of a jail sentence for you but if the sheriff sees that the place is overcrowded and you're low on the priority list of risk evaluation, they can let you go even if it gets in the judge's craw. The judge can then explode into a fit of rage but, as the Russian saying goes, "Toughshitski, Tovarisch." Now, on to the heart of this matter: 1. Paris Hilton was rocketed into the public eye, not because of the fact that she's heiress to the Hilton Millions but because of her constant party lifestyle. When you're a public figure, you live under a microscope. You fall into two categories; A. Loved by one and all, a role model, iconic or iconoclastic or B. Hated by many. Paris has lined herself up into both. Many young teenage girls would give anything to be in Paris' place. That, to me is unfortunate. I'll go more into that later. 2. Paris Hilton was rocketed into the public eye because of her constant party lifestyle. This means that she gets intoxicated (legally speaking) any time she attends a party and proceeds (possibly) to consume my share, your share and her share of the booze that flows like open tap water at these parties. If ya ask me, she's probably buying it. 3. Paris Hilton will never know the true value of a dollar as she never has to work. Most would agree that that's a thinly-veiled way of saying she's a spoiled brat and I would have to say you're right. 4. Paris Hilton will never know the true value of an actual friend as she's bought so many. 5. Paris Hilton is not receiving a 45-day sentence for the DUI she got...she got probation for that, she violated her probation...that's what she's getting the 45-day sentence for and the thing is, she violated it nearly right out of the gate. The rhetoric about the sentence being "excessive" is complete crap. Some of us whom may have been in this particular pickle only WISH that was what we got for that type of offense. Then again, most of us might have completed our probation without incident. 6. Paris Hilton has been chauffered around more in the past two weeks than ever before. Perhaps if she had done that sooner, she might have even skated the initial arrest. 7. From what I've seen, Paris Hilton doesn't even care about her entourage much less anyone but herself and her public image. 8. Final point...I've talked about this on the show and, while it may sound sexist, blame the law, not me. I didn't write them and I really don't care to enforce it any longer than I have to. If a man goes to jail and gets out, he still has some options. They're not much, but there are options. I think things could be more effective but, as I've said, I don't write the rules. When a woman goes to jail and gets out there are even fewer options. Prison on the other hand, is far worse a fate due largely to the fact that the same thing applies but successfully completing parole is even worse because of the lack of options. What does this mean to Paris Hilton? Not a thing. She's going to come out and still be heiress to that chain of hotels, she'll still have money, she'll still have people who have a crush on her, girls that want to be her, etc. Now, I have some solutions to this problem but let's put the media fiasco to bed. No one wants to hear these solutions but I have them. 1. Did the judge overstep his boundaries? Best believe it! Discipline him for it. Show him his place and stick him squarely in it. 2. Did the sheriff do what he thought was right for the overcrowding of the jail in Lynwood? Sure! I'm not saying that we should give him a medal but I don't think that this is something of great concern to us. Only thing I'm saying in this case is he should be a gnat more careful of the message it sends to people when he lets someone like that out, low-risk or not. 3. Send Paris Hilton up the river...yeah, state time. Lil Kim did a year for lying on the stand. You don't see a recording studio going batty and turning her next album down. Let her do 45 days worth of state time. What that does is it keeps the jail from getting overcrowded. The Sheriff won't have to worry about her and, furthermore, the judge will be well within his sentencing rights to ensure that the entire length is being served. 4. Paris Hilton can do her time like any other person in her predicament would have been made to do. The public at large can get the same sentence and you won't see anything like what happened to her happen to any of us. Better believe that someone without her money might have even entered a plea bargain to get twice the amount of that time. Better yet, this kinda nightmare will drive the point home with her, something that probation SHOULD have done. The preventative measures didn't work, maybe the pound of cure will. Now, understand something. I don't like my job as much as I used to. I can see it's not really helping some people to straighten out. There are those that it does help but if the public sees what happens when celebrities get it in the neck when they've done something like that and have approached it with the attitude in the Entirely Wrong spectrum, perhaps some of these public figures will get the idea to shape up or get shipped off. Let's make something clear...illegal is still illegal no matter what position of power you're in or how much money you have (or don't as in our cases) and take the sum total of the equation of those above the law to what the mathemeticians call Absolute Zero. For those of you interested in a little food for thought, the only people above the law sit on Grand Juries and Trial Juries. If you would like to prove me wrong on that, go look it up and if you find something contrary to that, let me know. And for those who don't believe me when I said she's a spoiled brat, go have a look at her mugshot and tell me she's not smirking.

I'm often amazed at certain everyday things. While I view the collective of humanity with a general disgust and complete apathy, on an individual level, I can find them enjoyable or even completely revolting. Thursday proved to be very interesting indeed. I'd expected another night at work where my stress levels would go up and wouldn't come down until I'd end the night but it wasn't to be so. Earlier in the day, one of the inmates (one that has never been much in the way of trouble) was suckerpunched by another, renowned for his irrational fits of uncontrollable temperament. This meant the three hour trip to Shreveport, to the charity hospital, which would prove to be an exercise in lengthy stays. If it's one thing I love about work, it's taking trips. The overtime, being off the compound, the feeling that anything can, and ususally does, happen...it's all great. There's also a sense of irony in it. To know that someone as certainly as insane as I has been entrusted out in the public with a deadly weapon and a huge responsibility like the one with which they present me. The holding/lockup area becomes a menagerie of sorts. First, there is only one cell there and that's where all the inmates from all the different institutions are kept. Some from Forcht Wade, David Wade, the city jail, other state institutions nearby, hell, they're all in there. Then, there's the area just outside of it, where we all sit. Naturally, the whole thing starts rather awkwardly, with no one talking to anyone. One conversation will inevitably lead to others and soon, the entire room is locked into discussion. While I'm known for being vocal, in this setting, my insanity comes to the fore. I become quiet and just watch them all as though they're monkeys and I'm sitting in my observatory, mentally recording...everything. I listen to them and I figure things out based on the small talk that they all nervously make. I offer very little to the conversation. I am by no means nervous, oh no, not by any means. I always stand at the ready to offer my opinions when asked. If those opinions are not welcome, then they are not the ones for which to be asked. I am thankful that some questions are never asked of me until one particular policeman fresh from Iraq and the army finally did it. "What about you, man," he asked, "You don't talk much. I've been waiting to hear about your opinions on our president." He'd already expressed his. I had to agree with his opinions though I think he missed a lot of things. He's absolutely right about how bad our current president it but I fear he doesn't know the worst of it and during the conversation, he seems to be largely alone. The majority is against him. I know now that if I let it out, not only will I anger this group but myself in the process. Still, I know there are times that my anger makes me even more calm and focused, even clear on some occasions. Now is one of those times when it has to happen. "He and his family are a long line of traitorous slime that should have ended with Prescott The Nazi," I said, "I never agreed with the death penalty by any means but in their case, I'll happily make the exception. Lock them all into a room, expose them to ebola and watch them crash and bleed out." There were looks of surprise all around. If anyone wasn't surprised it was me. Seems like some of them just weren't ready for that. It's a classic illustration of what could happen if I'm ever asked a question. Like a tyrant, I assume ultimate and absolute power and then, I begin to take the velvet glove from the iron fist and stomp my jackbooted feet all into the subject matter, especially if I know something about the subject. "If you'll excuse me," I said, "on that note, I'm going to smoke." I exit the room, they're still silent. No doubt the other six in that room, my partner included, were waiting until I left to make comment. Suits me just fine. The whole night passed in this way. Difference was, they never asked for my opinion on any subject at all, save for the movie Shooter which I'd offered an opinion on the movie based on Stephen Hunter's book Point of Impact, on which, the movie is based. One by one they were called until the crowd in the room thinned to my partner, myself and the two Shreveport police who were changing guard more times than the U.K. The last time they did, the policeman who came in brought in a female inmate. He couldn't put her into the cell with the males, of course, so she sat amongst us, waiting for her turn to be seen. The conversation pressed on, I sat, listening as usual. Throughout the length of the conversation, I'd felt eyes on me. Like two lasers, centered on my temple, I'd noticed that the woman that the policeman had brought in was looking directly at me and would not stop. I looked out of the corner of my eyes to see it. It wasn't a stare of some murderous intent but almost curious examination. Finally, the two bottles of water had wanted to make their exit and I stood, excused myself and went to the bathroom in the adjacent room. Walls, I'd find, even in a hospital are paper thin. "What's the story with him?" they'd asked my partner. "He does that," my partner told them, "He likes to listen. That's it." "A little pale, isn't he?" another one asked, "He always like that?" "You should see him in the wintertime," Marv told them, "he gets much more pale than that. He's been working nights for so long that he sleeps during the day on his days off." There was a mumble somewhere and then one of the policemen inquired further. "Huh?" he asked. "Nothin'" the female voice replied, "I just said he's a little spooky." "Yeah," the policeman chimed in, "He got a little intense when Menefee asked him about the president earlier." "He ain't supposed to be alive," the female voice said. I stopped to listen in further. "The president?" Marv asked. "No," she replied, "Your partner...he ain't supposed to be alive." What the hell? I thought. Weird experiences happen to me during hospital trips, not all of them are pleasant. "What are you talkin about?" one of the policemen asked her, "Do you know him?" There wasn't a response. I finished and washed my hands and rejoined them. There was total silence in the room and I began to feel her eyes again. The tension was so thick you could have gone swimming in it. "So at 19 years old," I said, finally shattering the silence, "I drank...for two weeks solid. Barely any sleep to speak of. I still don't remember if I ate anything. What I do remember is getting up to take a leak. I went outside, broke the seal on a new bottle of vodka, and it was as cold as shit outside and then...that was it." "What was it?" one of the policemen asked. "I was gone," I answered, "I was dead by the time they'd gotten me to the hospital. The doctors did everything they could to revive me and when I came to, I suppose they had given up." "How do you figure?" he asked. "Because there was a sheet over my face and no one in the room," I answered, "If you're about to ask why the hell I'm here even I couldn't tell you that. I don't know. I've been somewhat nocturnal ever since. I'm afraid she really is astute, I'm not supposed to be alive. Funny how this thing we don't quite understand works, isn't it? Life, I mean. We're born, we go to school, we work an endless string of jobs and then, blink, blink, we can't believe how time has passed us by while we've toiled away. We seem to think of death as an end but what did it really end in my case?" "Maybe that's the question that you can answer," I said, turning my attention to her, "Then again, maybe not. In any case, what you see in front of you is what exists. I can understand if it's hard to accept. Reality is somewhat harsh in that respect. On that note, I'm going to have another smoke." I left again. I sat alone in the smoking area this time around, wondering just what the hell I was really doing, or where I'm going if anywhere at all. Then again, maybe anywhere but here was the place to go. By the time I'd returned, the hospital was ready for our man. Good thing too, it was already 4:00 a.m. I was beginning to wonder if they'd get to him at all. I could only imagine the pain that the man was in. As we waited in the emergency room, we began to consider all the possibilities. Perhaps the oncoming shift would completely forget about us and send someone up late as they did the last time. Perhaps they would send someone and we'd be relieved on time. Either way, we could look forward to a myriad of possibilites concerning starting our weekend. I had a housecleaning project this weekend that I needed to jump on with the roomies. Being rocked out and hung up to dry wasn't going to help that. I would need rest in the most absurd way. The doctor came in and took a look at him, got the story and ordered a series of X-Rays. I took the phone and called the compound for an update. When I returned, we were still waiting. Finally, an hour later, we took him across the hall to have his X-Rays done. Hanging out in the control room, I learned some things. First, this control room had more computer equipment than the bridge of the Nebuchadnezzar in The Matrix. Second, some of these computers were machines made to read and display X-Ray pictures, rather than develop film and post them to huge light boards. Third, the only X-Ray picture on the light board was from 2004 and showed me something that, upon closer inspection, I never thought I'd ever see in real life.

I was thinking, "If I never take a picture of this...no one will believe me." Now that I think about it, I should have taken video. After our inmate's series of X-Rays were done, we rejoined him. "Man," he said, "My jaw hurts like hell." "I imagine it would," I told him, "It's broken in two places, but it could be worse." "How?" he asked. I pointed toward the picture on the lightboard through the window and encouraged him to have a look. "What the hell is that?" he asked, "Uh uh...is that what I think it is?" "Afraid so," I told him, "It's crazy the things people do for kicks." He shook his head and said, "I'd laugh but it hurts too much." During the X-Rays, the technicians had to drop what they were doing and run to the trauma area. A man, it seems, brought himself to the E.R. with a gunshot wound to the chest. That put us even further behind. Amazingly, within the hour, the X-Rays were done and we were sent back to the room. I called for one last update. An appointment with oral surgery at the clinic across the street from the hospital at eight in the morning. Again, in the holding area of the clinic, after registration, we found ourselves in the same predicament. Many officers crammed into one tiny area, two female inmates in a cell looking at me, whispering to each other in hushed tones until, finally, the door to the small office was closed and one of them asked me. "Everything ok over there?" she asked, "You don't talk much." Suddenly, they all became quiet and the despotic tyrant in me came to the fore again. "I'm...crazy," I said, "for want of a better term. There's paperwork on it. There are charts and graphs and the like. It's a real load off my mind because if I feel like crawling on the floor and barking like a dog, then so be it! I'm bonkers...that is to be expected." The whole of the room erupted into laughter of the nearly-debilitating variety. These would prove to be my kind of people. They were comfortable around an insane person. When my partner began talking to me about calling in another update to the compound, I maddeningly whipped out my cellphone at him, aimed it at him and in an angered tone growled, "Do not make me vaporize you! I'll ringtone you to death, you swine!" His answer to this was to play some pathetic ringtone that comes standard with the phone at me from his phone. "No..." I said in my best Christopher Walken impression, "You can't do that to me that way...you've got the wrong tone!" They began beating desks in laughter that time. At 9:30 a.m., our relief showed up with someone to drive us back to the compound. Naturally, I slept most of the way. After arriving home, I paid a couple of bills and went to bed...at 2.00 in the afternoon. I awoke at about 9:30 p.m. The dreams I had were terrible and weird even for me. The cleaning had been started. As Dude on The Couch and I drank beer and scrubbed the kitchen, listening to Twiztid, the lights suddenly went out and we found ourselves in total darkness. A small portion of the entire town had been blacked out. Other parts of town were alright. Someone must have hit a light pole. Two flashlights and an oil lamp kept lights up in the living room as we waited. Still, it irked me slightly...I had music downloading and lots of it. A couple of hours later, the lights were back on and we relaxed a bit. I'm going back to cleaning now. There's still much work that needs to be done.

Sometimes, I can actually see, lucidly, the trailer of a movie about my life. In my mind, I hear Don LaFontaine (the movie announcer guy) narrating it. I don't know who the hell would star in it so I might take a stab at it. Laugh if you must but it's me making the damn casting call. "In a world where one man struggles with his mind..." Then, of course, you see some dark room with some bald guy sitting at a computer, silhouetted by the warm glow of a monitor. "Dreams and visions take a life of their own..." Cut to the sound of some record scratching and then this unearthly scream as a show opens "This summer..." Naturally you'll have scenes of me going off with pieces of my angry ranting, raving and carrying on. "prepare yourself..." Now, you see flashes of whoever has the audacity to play my part on the phone in more funny-as-hell angered rants over the phone saying shit like, "I don't give a fuck what the hell it looks like, I want it on the show. We're going to make it bigger, badder, faster, meaner, harder and more volatile than ANYTHING Howard Stern could have ever imagined..." Cut to silence and a black screen... "Then we'll make him wish he'd thought of it..." "For the movie event of the decade. Starring Vin Diesel..." Vin copping one of my lines: "I'm crazy? You think I'm crazy? Well I HOPE LIKE HELL I'M CRAZY! If I'm not Crazy, then we're all fucked, aren't we?" "...Ryan Reynolds" Ryan, of course playing Dude on The Couch: "I always wanted to say you were like a hardcore version of Art Bell...I just didn't know if you'd take offense to that." "...and Lorraine Bracco" As she's the only chick I know with the Jersey accent to play Misty: "I first fell in love with you the minute I heard your voice...you gave me something to hope for." "In the true story of one man...one show...triumph, agony and an inhuman desire to overcome all odds. This summer, prepare yourself for...The Rise of An Empyre." Vin, again copping one of my lines: "Remember, everyone, there's a world of difference to make...just be sure to make yours." Of course throughout the thing I'd have a few songs by bands like Starlit, Collide, Diverje, Cockfight Club. The ad for the soundtrack might come up later since the movie will be so music-oriented. I'm really not even sure what the hell it would be about but you get the picture. For some reason, I always thought that there may be something that set me apart from the rest of the species. Something that would make me remembered through time immemorial but even now I have no idea what that will be. Truth to be told, I think the movie would only be interesting if it were told from a first-person perspective. About 85% of the shit that makes my posts interesting is all mental. It is only 15% actual events as they'd happened, after all. Then again, I figure for 20 or 30 people to actually be bored enough to read the crap I'm posting half the time, well, that is either saying something about mainstream media or maybe I've really grabbed some people's attention. What is that quality? I'll never know. Could any of these people I've mentioned in the movie get changed? Well shit, it's not like it's even got a budget yet, right? I think most of the movie would be shit that was happening in my head. Although it might end up another rock n' roll radio version of "The Wall" it might have something endearing to those who endulge in acid every once in awhile. Just don't take the blue acid...it's bad.

Ok, everyone, I'm finally back. I know I haven't posted to anything except the newsletter to my faithful subscribers (they're always first to get explanations) but some problems had recently came up and made their rise to power. Let's get down to brass tax here and cut the crap. 1. The day of the Fred Brito interview, a rather dubious pattern of pixeldeaths began happening on my monitor. Even though the monitor was only a 15" monitor, it was the flat style...the desk space saver. Even though I really couldn't afford it, I went ahead and bought this new one. Now, I have a 17" monitor that sits on my damn desk like a huge T.V. set. I'd almost forgotten how much I love having that desk space. Anyway, the monitor has been replaced and since it works, we're about to start rolling along again. 2. A new job opportunity has presented itself and I'm siezing the moment. It's a construction job which means I'll be trading in the monkey suit for a hard hat. Put bluntly, people, I've always enjoyed the whole "good guy" routine but after awhile, when you begin to see how you're getting fucked nine ways to Sunday by supervisors, peers and even those with a little political influence, it's only a matter of time before you quit pretending you don't care and your heart just isn't in it anymore. Does this mean I'm going "bad guy"? Nah. I'll always kinda see myself as somewhat villainous if not anti-heroic but I just can't bring myself to give the 100% anymore. It occurred to me, after watching Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe that a dirty job just might be what's in my future. I still remember when I worked as a grease monkey, I'd come home, covered from head to toe in a myriad of compounds, sludges, sweat and even shit from cleaning horse trailers sometimes, I felt as though I'd accomplished something. Yeah I was dirty and smelly as all hell but I felt like I'd accomplished something. In corrections, that feeling was long gone a long time ago. For those of you who've never worked at Wal-Mart...believe me when I say that place is long overdue for a union. 3. There have been many upgrades made to the show over this past year or so. In light of that, we're looking to upgrade the damn version to...that's right, we're no longer The Genocydal Empyre v2.0...we've gone 3.0! What this means is, it'll be the same stuff you've been hearing on World Rock Radio but we'll be doing more experimenting, making this show bigger, stronger, faster, louder, harder and meaner. 4. We've left World Rock Radio in favor of Krush Radio. Then again, I'm sure this isn't a surprise to most of you. We did it for a lot of reasons. Primarily, we did it to protect the integrity of the show. When World Rock didn't have a single personality on it, we stepped forward onto the stream, pioneering it. Unfortunately, the hands in which it was placed had decided that it will simply be a rock ONLY station. Normally I have no problem with this but much of the music I play by request will be outlawed. It wasn't anything personal, we just decided to do what was best for us and our content. Now the new job will probably put me working out of town five days out of the week. This means that we'll be restricted to a couple of shows each weekend BUT it will be on a more regular basis. Nothing is set in blood or stone just yet. I don't even know if I have the job at the moment. I just know that the possibility of a regular schedule is there. That, however is ALL that it is...a possibility. It might happen, it might not. If it doesn't, well then that just means we'll have to schedule carefully. If it does, though, be prepared for a regular weekend schedule and the possibility of us doing shows from the road in the future. We do have some new music lined up that is simply awesome and I think you'll like it. We're also going to be talking a lot more about things that are important but just remember, even though it might piss you off that we talk about 9/11 and government complicity, we're not asking you to simply believe it at face value, look it up, check it out for yourself and then YOU decide what YOU think. Bottom line is, we'll still talk about it. We're going to be talking about a lot of things, just stay tuned and, if it's not your cup of tea, hey, not everyone can keep their head out of the sand on certain things. I can't say I blame those who like living in denial, I honestly wish I could live there myself sometimes, but I can't. Still, the show is also going to be an open forum which means that when I post on the bot that my phone lines are open, that means you can call and express your opinion too, even if I might find it brilliant or moronic, I'll still let you have your say. In other news the job chasing helped me learn some things. Primarily are the following: 1. I found out the Social Security office didn't need my birth certificate to issue me a replacement card...just wish they'd told me that before I drove for an hour and a half (round trip) to get it because I forgot it here at home. 2. I learned that they'll even take your bank card as a second form of ID. 3. I'm now carrying up to six forms of ID on me at all times. Got an issue with my identity, better be ready to prove that I'm not who I say I am because I'll have enough proof on my end to cause a little humiliation. Right now, everyone, I'm beat as hell and I'm going to bed. I've lived the life of a day person for two solid days and had one hell of a time getting myself readjusted. My inner clock is wanting me to doze off like I did during that five-hour class...I still ended up only missing two questions out of fifty on the test and passed with a 96%. Sorry it took so long everyone, now, though, everything is back onscreen and we're gonna be kicking this thing in gear...full throttle.

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So there I was sitting on CherryTap (one of those online communities like MySpace) and looking through the bulletins. I love looking through bulletins. It's one of those places you can find a whole lotta things like when a band is releasing something or when the next show date is going to be...that kinda thing. Still, since the inception of this war we're locked into, I still never fail to see the subject lines of "If You Support Our Troops, Repost This!" and up until now, that is precisely what I've done. I've recently quit reposting them. Before you get completely disgusted with me, just hear me out. I was out for a walk recently. Misty's been sick. I'd been sick. I've had a lot on my mind. The filming has been halted in exchange for some base R&R. I've just needed a little time to think about some things and this was one of them. Seems like everytime I'd opened one of these bulletins, it would be a picture of a battle-weary soldier, carrying a hell-load of gear, trudging off to some destination that isn't in the frame of the picture and a poem would appear that would state something to the effect of, "For all you protestors out there, you're welcome ya buncha fuckin' ingrates!" and then the poem would go on to state all that they've done and how disgusted they are with us. Almost as regularly as clockwork, I'd repost these things time and time again, thinking "They're from soldiers, maybe I can show them that we're not all that bad." I thought wrong. No, dear reader, my friend, these very same messages kept filtering through and, soon, I had become disgusted with myself. You see, I'm a hardliner for telling people to wake up from the reality to which they've been programmed and begin to think for themselves and to stop living in fear because it's bad for you. At the same time, I'm passing along these poems and some of them amount to bottom lines of someone telling you to be a "Good American" and wave your flag and support a war for good or ill. Why send the double message? I have but one...Think For Yourselves! To me, that is the greatest definition of being a "Good American." I've known several soldiers personally, all of them have been to Iraq and most of those that have been there agree with me that something is inherently and terribly wrong with our employees on The Hill. They've alienated us completely. They keep their jobs by keeping us in fear and they have annhilated our very way of thinking. The most recent public opinion polls shows that the "conspiracy nuts" are now in the majority, leaving those who think that everything is all just fine in the dreaded minority. Well, my friends, I value my thought processes because they do serve me well from time to time. There are occasional lapses in judgment but once the processors catch up, that's when the biggest and most startling revelations begin to formulate and begin their Tom Clancy-like Splinter Cell Sneak on my conciousness to assassinate the little Mind Control Trolls that are stuck in my brain that have become like insurgents. It occurred to me, after reading one of these posts that I wanted the origin of the message desperately. I want to KNOW that it's one of our brave-souled, hard-knuckled, can-do protectors that had the awesome presence of mind and expression thereof to write such literature. These soldiers have influenced masses of people! They should have this stuff published, by God, That's The American Fucking Way! Goddamn Right! No luck...ran it down as far as I could and could not actually find the damned poem/graphics origin. This lead me to only one conclusion...this COULD be someone masquerading as a soldier, hating protestors and trying to make us all look "un-American." I wonder if that particular person has any type of ethics in that. I wonder what the soldier whose photo was used knows about this activity? If this is the case then why not have some respect for both the protestor and the soldier and actually sit down and discuss the issue? No, the coward's way has been taken. These types would rather hide behind something they see as bulletproof and they feel threatened by my own point of view. If this is a soldier and it is authentic, then by all means, allow me to properly illustrate why I am in opposition to the war or to violence in general. I am not so threatened that I wouldn't show that type of respect to someone who did what they believed was right even if I didn't agree with it. I'm not above telling someone who is going to be deployed, "Hey, just remember, go with God, keep your head down over there and come back home. You're always welcome here and if you need anything, here's my card. Get in touch." It is not the soldier that I do not support. I simply oppose the war, but if you have an issue with me and the way that I do things here, tell me and I'll be more than happy to help you understand why. I understand why you're doing what you're doing and that, to me, is highly commendable. I only ask for the same kind of understanding. If you choose to repost the bulletins on MySpace and CherryTap, that is fine and by all means, do it with my blessing but remember that, prior to calling me "liberal scum", why I have chosen not to and respect that. Also remember that calling me a liberal will not offend me in any way. There is a vast ocean of difference between what you may think and what I know.

Saturday Evening: I wake up on the couch. I must have fallen asleep watching the crappy edited T.V. verson of The Terminator rather than just getting up off my lazy behind and putting the damned tape into the V.C.R. Dude on the Couch is sitting across from me as I get up, my mouth dry, my head still foggy, wanting a cigarette, a shower and to listen to my new Foetus CD (THANKS SiNDADDY, IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME!) and just plain damn wake up. "Good Morning, Sunshine," he says with that big shit-eating grin on his face. That look never ceases to lock up my sleep-addled brain like a computer that's been overloaded looking for a way to process the information. This usually means he has a scheme up his sleeve. It's usually a scheme that sounds just plain great but will cause me pain in the end. It will either end in triumph or tears and it's been known to cause the latter in my case. This is the reason I despise that grin but it's one of those grins you can't resist. He's done this before. We were doing Operation: Bookload when he began by walking up to this cute goth girl at the counter with that grin, laying his charm on her and then, to her horror asked with that grin still on his face, "Where's your shitter? I really have to crap." Geeeeeez! So now you understand the ramifications of The Grin. I got The Grin and it terrified me. This meant that, quite possibly, I was going to be the Sausage Creature by the end of it....fucked up for life. "Hey," I said, still hazed, "What's up?" "Let's work out," he said. Now, The Grin wasn't so terrifying. This was something for my well-being! It's no secret that I've done too much of a couple of things. First, I drink far too many damned sodas for my own good and second, I spend far too much time sitting around in front of the computer. All of which has contributed to a midsection that has been stocking more than I can afford to store. It was only natural that I decided to consent when he said, "I just need 20 minutes of your time." I should have read the insidious nature of that tone but I failed to do so. He knew when to snatch me up and appeal to my idealism. He knew all the right buttons to push, the bastard. We spent a few minutes stretching. I'm nowhere as limber as I used to be and the stretching proved it beyond the shadow of any doubt. Great God, the results were already looking ominous. Then...the push-ups. I think I managed about fifteen before my arms just wouldn't push the ground away anymore. You see, I don't push myself up, I push the earth down but the earth is a stubborn bastard. My arms just shook when I tried. Next were the crunches which weren't too bad except that my back kept making farting noises against the floor. Mixing those with supine bicycles were a monster and I felt my abdomen screaming in protest. Each of these exercises only lasted several minutes but each of those several minutes felt like an eternity. Then, running in place for fifteen minutes. I managed twelve before my mind told me, "You know what? Fuck your ridiculous task and fuck you. I'm not doing it." My calves felt as though acid from a car battery coursed through them. "Come on! Keep going! This is disgusting! You're quitting on yourself!" Dude kept ranting at me. This was the one factor I didn't figure on...this was something he learned in the military. This was something designed to kill you and then do some type of weird bio-mechanical rebuilding. After the workout, I was completely disgusted with myself in the shower. We still had a trip to WalMart to make for groceries. By the time we arrived there, my damn calves were killing me. I'd skipped the refreshed feeling and went straight to being sore as all hell. Oh Holy Shit, I AM out of shape and badly. I still remember the way I was ten years ago and I loved it. I was light on my feet, I moved with pretty decent agility, I was limber, thinner and this kinda thing would not have been a problem. In the words of Christopher Walken, "You become the thing you fear...I let myself go." Today, I get up. No workout but it's too damned late to film the promo, I've got laundry to do and still more of those documentaries to watch to get up to date and informed. When we got off on the issues of the War, The RFID Hacks that are already taking place and have taken place, The Nightmare Scenario of The Microchip and many other things, I realized I needed to update myself, address a bit more rather than go off about the same old shit over and over again. That's what I do at the laundromat. I pull out the portable DVD player and I set myself about the task of learning something new through the documentaries...and I have many. Unfortunately, it becomes hard to offend people with substance when the phone won't quit ringing. Mark my words...ring, it did. Finally, with laundry done, I packed it all away and walked back home. Walking seems to take that edge off the pain in my calves. Frustrated with the outcome of my learning time, thinking, "Why is it when I'm bored and have jack to do, no one wants anything but the minute I'm in the middle of something, the phone won't stop ringing?" This is one of the things that gets me. To me, offending with style has been done. I've been called The Next Howard Stern by my peers and this is a title I do not want. No, I want something more. I want to offend with substance rather than style. There are plenty of DJs online that play metal, say "fuck" incessantly and talk about sex all the time but there aren't many who are willing to slam facts into the faces of those who don't want to look at them. That is what I want to do. Offending with substance takes knowing your subject and when people hear the hard parts, they run with no other option than to make lame excuses not to listen or call you names and, quite honestly, I'm not much of a misogynist. Still...my calves are killing me and I wait...for revenge. Yes, my friends, I have returned to my uber-villain ways and I seek revenge against Dude on The Couch. He shall suffer a humiliating defeat at my hands in the one tournament that he cannot handle. His rebuilding of me will be his ultimate shame when he meets me in a tournament of epic proportions...The Mazu-Kan Tournament! I've never been defeated...I've never taken part...but I've never been defeated.

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