So, Peter Steele is, purportedly, quite dead. (Have no idea who he is? Click here if you need to.) And my lack of surprise is about on par with my lack of being affected by it. That is to say not at all. But I understand a number of you (especially if you are female and in your 30s) thought the world of the guy, so I’ll be nice.

Oh, wait. No, I won’t.

I’ve never really been a legitimate fan of Type O Negative, and only thought a little more of their precursor, Carnivore. Thought the first Type O album was fun for a very short time when it was current, but it seemed so disposable once the gimmick wore off. I was in college radio at the time, both as a DJ and Metal Director, and Roadrunner practically jammed this band down everyone’s throats. Must have been the naughty words. Bloody Kisses was, in my opinion, the best album they ever did but I’ve honestly had no desire to hear even that album in about a decade — and I’m certainly not going to feverishly drag it out for the first time in 10 years like a number of you people did when Michael Jackson died and you were magically endowed with the mantle of Super Fan, playing his records into the ground. The other Type O albums never seemed to come anywhere near Studio Album Number Two, and, thus, weren’t the least bit interesting to me. I might own a promo CD of World Coming Down but I have no idea if I’d even listened to it more than once. My iTunes player shows its ripped counterpart as “never played.” Couldn’t even remember a single lyric or melody from it. Long story short, Type O Negative is not on my music enjoyment radar.

As a self-respecting human being (and a Satanist), I find no really inspiring aspects of Steele’s former life. As a matter of extremely obvious fact, I can think of a whole bunch of the opposite. He was a self-loathing, drug abusing, mentally ill ex-con who ran to Jesus at the end of it all. His destructive lifestyle flew in the face of the rational self-interest and personal responsibility of not only Satanism but any sane and mature outlook. I know he had great big muscles that drove all of you Goth-ish gals crazy, but given the mess that was this individual’s existence, it’s fair to say that the outside didn’t really match the inside. Compensation issues? Maybe a couple. Of course, I also realize that the wounded puppy routine turns some of you on, so have at the crying masturbation sessions and leave me out of your nonsense. Yeah, you too, Facebook.

Heart failure at 48? Toxicology report, please.

Yes, he had some amount of underground fame. That’s nice. Thoroughly shitty bands and “artists” get signed to major labels all the time and even have lasting popularity. (Type O slid in the back door of the Warner buyout of Roadrunner in 2006, but that almost doesn’t count.) Giving such a status any more credence than it deserves is desperate at best, obsessive at worst. Put in more exact language for those in the cheap seats, many music fans make a whole lot of lame excuses for their idols. They conveniently overlook their fixation’s excessively detestable qualities — the same qualities they condemn in those around them, yet give Mr. Rock Star a free pass on. If you’re no longer an adolescent, then spare me the backpedal. Regardless of fame, fortune, looks or “scene cred,” you’re all subject to the same scrutiny. Or, as Miss Rand said, “Judge — and prepare to be judged.” So, you’ll no doubt pardon me if I refuse to drink what’s in your cup.

I’m not glad he’s dead. I’m not happy or sad. I’m not mourning my lost youth through the death of some dude with a guitar. I don’t feel anything for someone I don’t know and would never want to have anywhere near my personal life. And I’m certainly not in need of some ideological escape clause to laud the lives of certain wastrels simply because they’re “in a band.” Sure, you can like the band and detest the band members. If you can get past the “I hate myself” lyrics and the cringeworthy interviews. And in the last 25 years of heavy music, that, in and of itself, is quite a feat.

It’s moments like this when I am utterly ecstatic about being a grown-up. And, better still, not dead. Unlike some people.

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That $3,500 beauty above is not it. Don’t be dumb.

But, for regular visitors to my abode, I am getting a new one. Newer, better, softer, same size, and it’s a sleeper sofa, too. Would order it tomorrow, but I’m currently plotting on the best way to cat-proof my $1,100 investment. Choices are faux-leather or upholstery. And, yes, I’ve measured the space. It’s been weeks now. Still thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

I will take any suggestion that isn’t A) get a (new) scratching post, B) put a slipcover on it (it’s a sleeper sofa, remember), C) have my cat de-clawed, D) clip my cat’s claws (which she won’t allow for a second), and E) get rid of my cat. It’s not scratching post replacement fears, it’s deep paw-kneading-with-claws issues. I’m looking for a good idea that has a minimum of compromises, is comfortable, isn’t crazy-priced, and will withstand the inadvertent attention of my feline’s main weapons of attack.

Suggest away…

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And in this instance, I would say that my pal Jim here is definitely NSFW.

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FIX – THE MINISTRY MOVIE TRAILER #1 from Gigantic Pictures on Vimeo.

Separating the fact that I’ve more or less enjoyed the music of Ministry in the past, this trailer reminds me of so many reasons why I bailed out on music scene nonsense, being in bands, putting up with clubs, etc. Throughout the above clip, there is that desperate attempt to appear “cool” through abhorrent behavior that should impress no one who rightfully holds the title of mature adult. There is also something so undeniably retarded about bragging up your glorified self-destructiveness and chemically-veiled weaknesses, let alone doing it in your 30s or 40s, that it simply boggles the mind. And at 51, Mr. Jourgensen, your redundancy in this area is beyond pathetic.

And I don’t mean that as a simple pejorative. What I see, as do undoubtedly many, is a sad old man’s lame attempt to bang damaged teen goths (despite the feigned disinterest) and run from old age by hiding behind such transparently insecure and pretentious statements as being “dangerously close to intelligent.” And how utterly innocuous is Navarro with his whole my-friends-are-tough-guys inference. As if anyone of any relevance cares. And to punctuate it all, we drag out the bloated corpse of Timothy Leary and the near-corpse of William Burroughs (two other drug addict losers) for interview time. Remember in the ’90s when it was trendy to read (or say you read) their stuff? No? Good, then time has done its job of pushing them into a deserved obsolescence. And as for Ministry…

Sorry, fellas, but you’ve been residing in the rock refuse bin alongside the ’80s hair bands for a while now, and all this video absurdity shows is what I’d sadly witnessed among certain folks from music scenes of which I was once a part: a total refusal to accept the hard fact that your youth is long over, your recklessness is no longer cute or condoned, and you impress only the very few — the last, largely consisting of the weak and the stupid. You’re the Spinal Tap of industrial. Except that those chaps aren’t real and your shenanigans do not an entertaining documentary make. Yes, even if turned to 11.

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I realize that it is considered important or necessary or even a means to avoid boredom this month for various bloggers to cobble together some Top Ten list or similar rundown of pop culture media releases over this still-not-named decade. Given that I feel most of that could disappear off the face of the Earth and I wouldn’t even notice, it is not in my best interest to bother jumping on that wagon. However, what IS in my best interest — the subject I am always interested in discussing, dissecting, and dallying about — is, of course, me. So, taking an otherwise pointless and often misguided trend and focusing it back to something meaningful, here is a compare/contrast of myself over the past ten years, or thereabouts.

1999: Bars were occasionally fun spots to drink and pick up girls.

2009: Bars are boring. Not only are they boring, they are filled with the noxious blather of subhumans whose oblique pleas for an early death would provoke a mass slaughter from someone with far less self-control than myself. The attendants of most watering holes are, by and large, not interesting, intelligent, attractive, charming, or the least bit tolerable. Add to that the blaring cacophony of “music” and the utter lack of aesthetics at every turn, and I’d often rather do a house party. Even better, I’d rather choose my interactions whenever possible, rather than roll the dice on whatever floats into my personal space.

1999: Any woman with a sizable amount of good looks is worth sleeping with.

2009: Most women are weak and stupid. Most men have equally deplorable traits, but in the words of the late Sam Kinison, I don’t sleep with them so women are what I have to work with. Purely as a survival tactic, I’ve learned to develop a convincing outward display of patience for the bulk of the opposite sex, their often inane chatter, vile slang, lack of emotional control, serial whining, hideous hairstyles, pseudo-intellectual tirades, and all manners of thinly-veiled attempts at masking their core 12-year-old little girl inside. So, yes, I’m not wildly motivated to seek out nookie these days. Like anything, quality comes in small numbers.

1999: I really love music and shows and a whole slew of bands.

2009: I almost never listen to music anymore. When I do, it’s something next to no one I know even likes, unless it’s “something from the ’80s.” Following suit, I detest going to rock concerts. Having approached middle-age, my misanthropy has ripened into a well-bodied vintage. Putting that evolved disdain in a room full of drunken jackasses and other human failures isn’t even entertaining in that way for which the Germans have a nifty word I’ve overused far too much to include in this paragraph.

1999: I smoke too much, drink a bunch, never exercise, and eat poorly.

2009: Quit smoking, rarely drink, exercise a fair amount, and have cut a number of bad foods out of my diet. And I did all of that without the desperate need for outside support of other people, pharmaceutical or similar quitting aids, or any sort of tricks or false starts or indecision. Woke up one day, put my will in gear, and did it. And, no, I don’t want to hear how hard it is for you. Put up or shut up.

1999: I was in my early-30s and had a few of the naive assumptions folks of that age bracket have.

2009: The developmental leap from 30 to 40 is far more massive and utterly life-altering than I expected or could possibly explain to a young person without getting resentment and defensiveness in return. Just know, kids, that so many of the precious ideas you have and important positions you take now might be wiped away without trace in the future. Trust me, you’ll laugh about it all come your 40s — assuming you have even a modicum of intelligence and self-awareness.

1999: Probably mulling over the fact of how much I hated the 1990s in terms of cultural/media output. It appeared at that time to be a decade of non-relatable everything. My own media creations were what probably kept me from going insane then.

2009: I really love this decade we’re going to leave behind shortly — or in a year, for you nitpickers. The rise of personal technology such as various social media (notably, blogging), productivity gadgets, podcasting and more have brought an added level of enjoyment to my life — in addition to the usual low-tech and antiquated indulgences such as book reading, real-world conversations, and traveling. I even like the kids of today a lot more than those of the ’90s, though they still talk and dress too funny for this crotchety old geezer. At the very least, they appear to be a lot happier. All in all, a very good decade was had, and I look forward to the next one.

1999: This blog was two years old, had a different URL, published less frequently, and covered personal and professional tidbits that were interesting at the time.

2009: Coming into my 13th year of blogging (pre-dating the term, “blog,” to be exact), I’ve come to enjoy the experience of maintaining and contributing to this growing purple monster. It’s a challenge to post every single day and keep it relatively entertaining and/or informative. Given the subscriber numbers, it appears that it’s not done just for me, and I do appreciate the attention and promotion I’ve gotten from so many of you. And, yes, I deleted the old and boring posts long ago.

That is all. End of line.

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[reposted from Terror Transmission]

As fans of classic horror, we tend to like things left as they are. Whether it’s the occasional cringe when yet another deplorable remake surfaces or, in this case, the original home video box art is expunged and replaced with something less inspired and lacking the flavor of the film it’s trying to promote, it’s often an unwelcome revisionism that terror-fiends want no part of.

The box art change appears especially pointless when directly compared. So, in the interest of edification (and a means to rant for a number of paragraphs), here are a few of the most flagrant violators…

Trick or Treat

Back in the fall of 1986, heavy metal was positioned as the bad guy in popular culture, whether by concerned parent groups or the savvy marketing folks at the record labels. Either way, it made sense to construct a horror movie with a headbanger as the central boogeyman. The original VHS box art for Trick or Treat (let alone the even better movie poster) simply screamed “rent me!” It has the rocker in a ring of flame with a big beasty fellow trying to lick him. That’s pure rental gold right there.

But, of course, time passed. Metal, as it was known then, fell out of the public eye and a new generation had to be lured to this title somehow. Since metal veterans Gene Simmons and Ozzy Osbourne have both made pop culture comebacks with their respective “Reality TV” shows, why not slap them on the front of the DVD edition’s cover? Aside from the fact that their appearances are fleeting cameos at best, what the heck is up with that burning house and floating skull? It’s as if nothing on the cover is indicative of the actual film? And that shot of Ozzy is certainly not from 1986 at all. Give me Sammi Curr or give me nothing.

The Gate

I don’t like when awesomely dark and creepy horror art is “transformed” into something shiny and family friendly. And that is why I am appalled (yes, appalled!) at the sad attempt at modernity glaring back at me from the new DVD release of this classic flick. And for the love of all that is unholy, is that supposed to be Stephen Dorff? Really? It looks like someone took a young Haley Joel Osment and put him in camping clothes. I object! Is Disney making creature pics now? If not, get this crap off my DVD box and put the original art back! Or a naked Christa Denton. Yes, I can be bought off with gratuitous nudity. Sue me.

The Burning

There’s a freakin’ guy on fire, for cryin’ out loud! Right there! That alone makes it a superior cover to… just who is that supposed to be, a welfare version of Freddy Krueger? No, Jason’s in the woods, Freddy’s in your nightmares — keep it straight, people! That aside, The Burning is a classic slasher flick back when they actually knew how to make them, but I sure would pass on this movie if I didn’t know that and had only this bland cover to work with. And I want the freakin’ guy on fire to return. Considering he’s in the movie, that’s truth in packaging right there.

The Thing

I love Photoshop. It’s a great software package that can really aid in creating some solid visual art moments. This DVD cover is not one of those moments. Yes, I understand, the airbrush tool is lots of fun to use, and the paint effect harkens back to the days of MacPaint (or MS Paint, for you PC folks), but it does not replace the sheer brilliance of the original cover, coming at you with big bold letters and crazy blinding evil light radiating from a guy’s face. John Carpenter movies were once good. Let’s not make these DVD release covers as shitty as his modern cinematic offerings. Please.

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From Mr. Slaughter’s blog post on speaking at the Robert G. Ingersoll Oratory Contest, Washington, D.C. on the 4th of October 2009:

I’m nervous… in a few hours I’ll be in our nation’s capitol reading a lecture by the great American orator Robert G. Ingersoll… No matter what mundane or crazy shit I’ve done in front of an audience, I’ve always been plagued with nervousness before beginning. From making an announcement in a room or doing an interview over the phone, to being cut open in a blood ritual performance or crawling across a ceiling half-naked covered in silver paint – I’m a bit of a wreck until I start doing whatever it is I need to be doing. I’m not an extrovert by nature, but I’ve been performing in front of audiences since I was in Elementary School. I think I took this chance to help subdue that fear response a bit, but then here I am waking up at 6:30 am when my alarm is set for 8…

Listen to the full audio presentation of Slaughter’s reiteration of Ingersoll’s important words on the subject of “blasphemy” at the blog post linked above.

“In a world of superstition, reason is blasphemy.
In a world of ignorance, facts are blasphemy.
In a world of cruelty, sympathy is a crime,
and in a world of lies, truth is blasphemy.”

-Robert G. Ingersoll

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Fascinating how on The Iraq Culture Smart Card (a highly recommended read), some of the helpful words include “danger”, “shelter”, “mines” and “weapon.” Should be one of many signposts warning the rest of the world to simply avoid the hotbed of religious violence, rape and ignorance known as the Middle East. Funnier still how our own culture pushes the whole tolerance thing down our throats in response, as if the daily parade of Bronze Age thinking taken to its logical and violent conclusion is just “a different culture.” That there are Islamic flags representing such concepts as “purity” and “martyrdom” somehow doesn’t bring up visions of horrific historical dictatorships for so many of the apologists, and that simply boggles the mind. Thankfully, most of the sane people on the planet — that is, outside of Allah’s wasteland — know that Islam is a poisonous creed, unrepentant in its foundational need for total world domination, genocide, and forced conversions of those left standing. And that’s not a mere opinion. Unlike many Americans, I’ve read the Koran. More than once. And it makes the misdeeds of such Biblical terrorists as Gideon, Moses, and King David seem like a walk in the park in its well-stated intentions.

Merely for fun, here are some “cultural” quirks no doubt demanded by Muslim faith. So, strap on your Kevlar and run for the next overturned vehicle, because here we go…

Don’t use your left hand for contact with others, eating, or gestures. It is considered unclean.

Must be interesting to be naturally left-handed over there. Even still, this is more superstitious bugaboo. And we all know that “unclean” is really a euphemism for “unholy” or “blasphemous” or whatever other control language these ancient desert cults (including Christianity) put forth. Why not just chop all of your left hands off and be done with it? No shortage of that lovely practice in the Middle East.

Don’t point with a finger; it is a sign of contempt. Instead, point with your entire hand.

Like a Nazi salute? Why don’t I just point with my elbow or my right ear? Such nonsensical rigmarole SHOULD be held in contempt. You know contempt… something Islam both eschews and encourages at the same time. Right. Nice religion you’ve got there. And you wonder why the civilized world doesn’t take you seriously.

Don’t ask for a single opinion on an issue, as Iraqis often first reply with the answer they think you want to hear, rather than an honest answer.

An entire culture of liars, and seemingly encouraged. Small wonder why actual civil discourse never seems to get accomplished amidst the Allah-fueled bloodbath. But not to worry. In the land of Jihad, “opinions” are already pre-assigned under pain of torture and bodily dismemberment. How nice.

Don’t slouch, lean, or appear disinterested when conversing with Iraqi men. Do not expose the soles of feet or shoes.

Yeah, and hide your women, whip them if they vote or drive, and chop people’s heads off. Did I miss something? Oh, yes, blow yourself up in crowded areas, too. And then, just to be completely ridiculous, throw in the naked feet thing as well. And disinterest? Musn’t actually express a contrarian viewpoint. That would be too much like… free will.

Don’t back away from an Iraqi during conversation. Close personal interaction is customary and distance is considered rude.

Distance = distrust. Though, I suppose I’d be distrustful if I lived in a society that was on the brink of mayhem at every turn.

Don’t offer a Muslim food or drink or consume either publicly during Ramadan. Never offer a Muslim alcohol or pork.

Tell me when Ramadan is and I’ll have a drunken pig roast to beat the band. Forget the dozens of virgins in the afterlife. Bring on the barbecue sauce!

Don’t engage in religious discussions.

Because questioning the backwards, archaic absurdities of Islam would actually lead to some rational thought for some. To secure their idiocy, don’t discuss it. Like the giant purple elephant in the room, just ignore it.

Don’t make the “OK” or “thumb’s up” signs; they are considered obscene.

But, what if you put them together? Oh, such naughtiness. Stick a veil on that, too.

Don’t praise an Iraqi’s possessions too much. He may give them to you and expect something of equal value in return.

So, you give me something and I’m supposed to give you something of the same worth? Um, how about I give you the very thing you just gave me and we call it even? Or maybe… that’s just weird.

No really meaningful wrap-up here. I’d rather keep today’s post fun and not socio-politically preachy. Besides, I have a birthday coming up and much associated trouble to get into, so there is simply no time for grandstanding. But, birthday nookie? Now, that’s something I could fly my hijacked airliner into, if you get my drift.

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Over the last eight or nine months, I’ve been holding down a diurnal schedule, getting up at 7 a.m. for work, which means I eat breakfast. Previous to this new pattern, I hadn’t eaten that meal since the mid-1980s, so I’m a little unpracticed in what to choose. Seeing as I also have to consider the lack of time, I almost always go with cold cereal.

It started with the so-called healthy stuff, but then I could hear those all-too-familiar voices calling to me in their synthetically sweet tones from the grocery store shelves. “Matt… Matt… Come BACK!” And now it’s come down to my first meal of the day involving funny cartoon characters pimping low-nutritional joy in pretty colors from the outside of cardboard boxes.

Oh, I’ve used up and tossed away the usuals like cheap whores: Frosted Flakes, Rice Crispies, Cap’n Crunch, you name it. It’s been a literal Babylon of sucrose sin leading to lower and lower depths of gastronomical ennui. But, currently, I’ve been partaking of the Fruity Pebbles. Not the most masculine sounding cereal, but the assortment of faux-citrus flavors keeps my attention during my struggle to gain a fully awake state. And since you’ve gone this far into the post, I will expound upon my current breakfast choice for the edification of all.

Barring any sort of weird nostalgia some adults might have for Bedrock’s main residents serving as spokespersons for their morning meal choice, I wonder what the attraction is for the children of today. I mean, Fred and Barney really aren’t current in any sense of the word — in fact, the actual show is older than I am. But, 40+ years later, they can still sell cereal. This is significant as, last time I checked, there is no cereal dedicated to Rocky and Bullwinkle, The Banana Splits, or Wheelie and the Chopper Bunch. Even the masters of pre-teen mind control, collectively known as Hanna-Barbera, are dead. But, from out of the prehistoric rubble (pun intended), the Flintstones can still shill for breakfast food after all of these years. So, yes, at 7:34 in the a.m., I am thinking about these things while I wait for the sugar rush to kick in and start my day.

Also, I’ve noticed the comparative lack of toy prizes in cereal these days. Granted, they’re not the draw for me that they were back in the ’70s and ’80s, but, seriously, what about the kids? Don’t they deserve cheap, plastic baubles at the bottom of each box? Or are they too absorbed in XBox and Harry Potter to care? There was a time when we expected — yea, demanded — a completely disposable, mold-injected trinket whose appeal would last an entire afternoon unless taken away by our third-period teacher. But, take a look now and see what you get. Cut-out cards with tips on going “green”? I object, good sirs! Travesty! Poppycock! Not RIGHT!

I’d hate to be a youngster now. But, I’ll sure as heck eat their cereal and laugh sadistically as over-sweetened milk runs out my nose. Surely, not the prettiest picture for a Magister, but gosh darn it, I’m eating the Pebbles and I don’t care who knows it! Yabba Dabba Go-F-Yourself!

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Back in the 1990s or nearabouts, I’d composed a lyrical examination of sorts for Dio’s first album, Holy Diver. At least, some of the choice tracks on the album. Bill M. posted it on the Internet, and then added his own commentary. Since you might have never seen this (or the other tracks dissected), here’s an example…

Holy Diver

Holy Diver [MGP: Question: what is a holy diver?]

You’ve been down too long in the midnight sea; oh, what’s becoming of me? [MGP: Call me kooky, but somehow I'm focused more on what's becoming of the drowning priest; he has my attention at this moment in time]

Ride the tiger, you can see his stripes but you know he’s clean [MGP: so, normally seeing his stripes means that the tiger is dirty? That brings us to Dio-ism #2: seemingly deep points obscured to all who are not Dio]

Oh, don’t you see what I mean? [MGP: as a matter of fact, NO!]

Gotta get away – holy diver [BILL: Is this "get away FROM the Holy Diver", or telling the Holy Diver to do so?]

Shiny diamonds, like the eyes of a cat in the black and blue [MGP: someone beat up a cat? maybe Dio? the holy diver? WHO?]

Something is coming for you – LOOK OUT! [MGP: important Dio word or phrase #2]

Race for the morning [BILL: See Dio-ism #2]

You can hide in the sun ’till you see the light [MGP: Dio-ism #3: blatant use of paradox]

Oh, we will pray it’s all right

Gotta get away – get away

Between the velvet lies [BILL: Does that mean fibs made of Elvis paintings, or "lies" as a verb?]

there’s a truth that’s hard as steel [BILL: Same Truth-with-Many-Lies from "Straight Through The Heart"?]

The vision never dies, life’s a never-ending wheel [MGP: one that, according to "Stand Up And Shout," we are all nailed to. Thanks, Dio]

Holy diver, you’re the star of the masquerade, no need to look so afraid

Jump on the tiger [MGP: any masquerade where they invite tigers may be one to avoid; jumping on him may be bad, too]

You can feel his heart, but you know he’s mean

Some light can never be seen [MGP: PARADOX ALERT!]

(repeat verse one)

[MGP: Note: this song, like many Dio songs, has a problem with clearly defining what is happening to whom. Who's got "shiny diamonds?" Who has to "get away?" We'll NEVER know!]

As for other Internet rantiness given to Rev. M. in the past, check out my continuation of his already established A-Z One Hit Wonder Metal Bands rundown. It’s truly retro-licious!

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