bros being bros

This is just a rad picture.

AirBored

Went to Florida recently. Got bored on the plane(s) on the way...so I started documenting the flight. Here ya go.

Oct. 13 - 1:38pm

I'm on a plane from Phoenix headed to Atlanta where I'll then board another plane to Orlando. The signs on the outside of the plane, inside of the plane, as well as the in-flight pamphlets, assure me that free wi-fi is available. I want to check Facebook and Twitter (not sure what I'm actually looking for), but can't connect. Thirty-three thousand feet and no wi-fi. These are First World Problems. Well, not so much problems as grievances. Poverty is a problem. Searching for empty recognition on the internet from my phone is hardly even a grievance. My itchy patchwork of a beard on the other hand...

I'm sitting, cramped, next to my brother and wife. The folks in front of us smell. Like, authentically European smell. Almost a moist sack stink. It's giving me a bit of a headache. I've never sat in First Class, and today isn't anything new. I would imagine they have some kind of quality stench control. Next time I'll save a little extra for the leg room and breathable air.

This flight has no row 13. As if they're actually fooling anyone. When did we ("they") become such a culture of superstition? It's a fucking number, get over it.

Maybe I'll start a rumor that the color Purple is Satanic. Get a Facebook campaign going. Perhaps a humorous Twitter account. By 2130 it'll be fucking gospel.

I need a beer...

They have a pretty decent booze selection for moderately reasonable prices. I can get a Beck's for $5. About what I'd pay at a bar. Of course, I'm not sure I wanna spend $30 on a buzz. However...some of my fellow passengers have begun conversing and I forgot headphones. Shit...

Beer me?

--

2:27pm

Decided I couldn't afford the booze. Well I didn't decide, my bank account did. Instead I opted for reading selections from Bukowski's "Notes Of A Dirty Old Man." Inspires me to continue striving for a life worth reading about.

I'm floating in a haze somewhere between tired and wide awake. Can't sleep, but my film is missing frames.

A stewardess got on the PA asking for a medical doctor or EMT. She repeated. A black woman, 40's (?), got up to help. Looks like an elderly woman just a few rows in front of me and across the aisle is being administered oxygen. Only about halfway into this flight. Seriously reconsidering a cocktail...

--

2:39pm

My wife's talking in an old-timey southern accent. Kind of vaudevillian. I think all the recycled farts are getting to her. Either that or she's possessed. What's the difference at 33,000 feet?

Old ma'am "I can't breathe" is still on oxygen. Don't think she's gonna make it. Just kidding. Everyone is still smiling so it can't be that bad.

The stewardess has been holding the oxygen tank for like 15 minutes. I wonder how much that tank weighs. Can't she set it on the ground or something? Or at least give it to her husband to hold? I assume it's her husband. Do old folks date?

Black Savior is heading back to her seat and the stewardess has left as well. I think this concludes their adventure. Back to sudoku and "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" paperback for them...

- FLIGHT 2 -

*note: at this point I was becoming too enraged and/or tired to record the time of my entries

Just boarded the connecting flight to Florida. Turns out the vacant, knuckle-dragging characters you see on The Jersey Shore exist in real life. Sitting behind us are three shitbags of similar stock. Apparently, they've never been graced with the invention of headphones or told that:

A) they're white

B) Dubstep causes brain damage and they don't have much left to damage

C) nobody wants to hear their lame rhymes

D) they're white

Debating choking out the lot and storing them in the overhead bins...

--

Dear hollow sacks of fuck,

...die.

--

Holy moly, raped with a canoli! Your "music" is unlistenable. And I can actually hear it over the (much more pleasant) roar of the FUCKING JET ENGINE!

Maybe if I tell these guys we're flying over an Axe Body Spray outlet they'll jump out of the fucking plane. Eat shit, pricks...

--

I hope these three ghosts-of-House-Party-passed get corn-holed by a fucking pack of rabid, methed-out Juggalos upon exiting the plane.

--

I hope I see them on the news as the "tragic victims" of a Hostel-esque torture marathon in Berlin.

--

Shortly after that last entry we landed. My brother and I showed remarkable restraint by not murdering the three of them on site.

Pallbearer

If you like Sunn O))), Boris, or Black Sabbath and you haven't gotten the new Pallbearer demo by the time I see you next...you're dead to me.

Click HERE to download it.

These guys are fucking great and I really look forwarded to seeing them live sometime.

VacayDay

Decided to take today off from work, so as to side-step insanity. So far...so good. I'll be sure to keep all of you who read this (nobody) abreast of my mental health should anything go awry. Not sure if my new routine of waking at 5:30am and putting in 45 minutes of cardio while watching David Lynch films is helping or hurting that...

Today I believe I will completely negate my 6:30am workout (slept in) with a breakfast burrito from Filiberto's. I have to say...it's my favorite of the "'Berto's." First off, I'm pretty sure there is little to no chance of the kitchen staff bailing out the backdoor in the event of an immigration raid. I like that in a Mexican food restaurant - being able to get the same delicious food a second time. Also, there are no stray cats in the vicinity. Which means no stray cats will be found in my combo plate. There have been rumors in other...more urban dining settings.

My lip began bleeding uncontrollably - and for seemingly no reason - at lunch yesterday. So in the spirit of turning lemons into lemonade, I found some paper and made a little blood art. I'll post pics of these "self portraits" soon.

Ok...I'm off to stuff my face with Mexican food only to follow it up with lunch at Hula's Modern Tiki (probably my new favorite restaurant/bar). If you're in the Phoenix area, do yourself a favor and check it out.

A Storm's Last Stand

The cracked valley floor

And jagged tops of mountains

Are both

The spectators and arena.

Eyes all around us.

You sound your entrance

With a warm gust

From the North,

Speaking in sleet.

I am the low roar

On the horizon.

I've come dressed as storm clouds,

Colored in darkness.

I speak with lightning.

I'll defend my words

With thunderclaps,

Because I'm not doing this again.

I've learned my lesson

Through shock treatment.

These conversations

Can get so electric.

So this time

I'll raise my voice

And wake the Earth,

Because right here

Is where I take a stand.

Two fronts don't have to collide

From now 'til infinity.

Perfectly destructive.

Perfectly endless.

Rather...let's end this.

While I cherish these

Whirlwind talks,

They're making me nauseous.

"It Just Is... - A Portrait Of John Balance" - approx. 11 x 17 pencil on paper

(this is just a crappy picture cuz I haven't scanned it yet)

King Of The Quicksand Hill

This was originally intended to be lyrics for a song. There is, in fact, musical accompaniment already written/demoed. Nonetheless, I think this stands pretty well as a poem as well.

Here ya go..."King Of The Quicksand Hill."

Further failure confirming

I'm destined to faulter.

Glory is always out of reach,

So why even bother?

Am I a glutton for punishment

Or just doomed to ignorance?

Sisyphus, you wrote the book.

Can the cycle

Ever be broken?

As the clock strikes "Too Late",

I'm floored with the realization

That I'll never be anybody's hero.

Is all my effort, all my sacrifice,

Striving to be

The king of a quicksand hill?

new work

untitled - approx. 9x12 pen & ink/watercolor on paper - Jan. 2011 - $75

to purchase, contact: captinertia@gmail.com

Halo Of Hangnails

After the dissolution of Revenant, a few of us were gonna start a new project called Baragon. Not entirely sure where this project currently stands...but nonetheless, here are the lyrics to our first demo - "Halo Of Hangnails."

Listen HERE.

A halo of hangnails

Hovers above his head.

He trims with intuition

Leaving common sense well-fed.

They pick and pull,

Leaving open wounds.

Into their open hands

The blood pools.

They lustfully reach for

Eminent infection.

Peel back the skin.

Bleed.

Terminally illogical.

Terminally irrational.

Crown them condemned.

Drag

He lit a cigarette he found on the table next to him and took a drag. He hadn't felt that suffocating smoke fill his lungs nor the quiet relief of exhaling it in nearly 10 years. Despite the absence, it came second nature. Not too harsh. It felt good. Muscle memory he supposed.

The grey cloud playfully shifted shapes and danced in front of him. It was as if he were watching a ballet set to the soothing ambiance of the city's sounds, conducted by his own fleeting breath.

This is what Webster's meant by "relaxation."

The smoke pirouetted right out the open window and into the night. Gone. He stared at the cigarette in his slightly swollen hand, caked in a thin layer of blood and broken skin, thumbing the back of the moist filter. It sparkled, leaving him entranced. A kaleidoscope of carcinogens.

Reflecting on the chemicals he had just inhaled, he was indifferent. Tar, Acetone, Benzene, Ammonia, Formaldehyde, Arsenic. Nothing could hurt him anymore. He hadn't a care in the world.

This is what self-help gurus meant by "letting go."

He placed the lit cigarette back on the side table. Sweeping away the remaining pieces of his broken cell phone, like pieces of so many broken hearts, he grabbed the bottle of cheap red wine. He liked red. It reminded him of blood.

This was his sacrament. These hotel rooms were his temple of worship.

Whether the bottle was half-empty or half-full, he didn't give a shit. It was irrelevant, cuz it still contained wine. He pressed the green bottle to his greying lips, titled his head back like a dump truck overcome with the holy spirit, and took a long swig. Re-examining the remaining blood of his saviour, he surmised the bottle was half-empty.

He let out a long sigh as he placed the bottle on the table. Using his thumb and middle finger he picked up the lit cigarette, spilling ashes on the floor and in his lap. He, again, politely removed another sensual drag from his beautiful ballerina and watched her dance out the open window.

This is what crotchety old men meant by "peace and quiet."

Gemini Moon

Blinded by the light

Of a Gemini Moon,

The twins, converged,

Begin to bloom.

The black and the white

Blend to grey.

In a colorless void,

The duality lay.

It forms a mouth

And prepares to speak.

The sound exerted,

An ominous beat.

Drops become rivers,

An ocean in days.

It waits at the shore

To be swallowed by the waves.

Mustache Love

Chris Foglia - Mr. Mustache

Sara Foglia - Mustache Lover

DJ Foley - Writer, Director, Editor

Top 10 of 2010

A bit late, but here are my Top 10 Albums of 2010...in no particular order.

01. The Secret - Solve et Coagula

02. The Damned Things - Ironiclast

03. Mike Patton - Mondo Cane

04. All Pigs Must Die - All Pigs Must Die

05. Dillinger Escape Plan - Option Paralysis

06. Integrity - The Blackest Curse

07. Dropsaw - Hard Justice

08. Intronaut - Valley Of Smoke

09. How To Destroy Angels - How To Destroy Angels

10. Knut - Wonder

Symbiosis

I wrote lyrics and performed as a guest vocalist for the song "Symbiosis" on Darkness Before Dawn's album "King's To You." I had to edit out several lines to make it fit the song. Here it is, unabridged, for the first time.

Symbiosis

As my soul's winter turns to Spring,

I gaze upon the rising Sun.

Again I have survived

Another darkened night.

Dusk now welcomes warming dawn,

Thawing ice from frozen hearts.

The morning dew and flowing streams,

We drink in victory.

Daylight illuminating.

Optimism filling me.

Confidence restored with

Another evening conquered.

I bask in the Sun's healing glow

With soothing convalescence.

Despite the deepest wound repaired,

A crooked scar remains.

Temperatures are heating now.

Spring has turned to summer swelt.

The Sun hangs high and patiently

Awaits our firy end.

Betrayed by our once healing light,

The scent of scorched flesh fills the air.

The running brooks and cooling streams

Cannot extinquish me.

Longing for the rising moon,

I fear this will not end.

Despite this pressing, violent feud,

My hand I must extend.

As dusk slowly closes in,

Again the sun begins to set.

No longer engulfed in flames,

I welcome Night's embrace.

As my soul's summer turns to Fall,

I gaze upon the setting sun.

Again I have survived

Another blinding day.

Dawn now welcomes cooling dusk,

Blistering our burning flesh.

The cold rivers and frozen streams

We dance upon with ease.

Twilight illuminating.

The landscape so fresh and scarce.

Shadows cast infinitely.

I am home again!

I bask in the Moon's healing glow

With soothing convalescence.

Despite the bubbling blisters scarred,

All flesh remains black and charred.

Temperatures are dropping now.

Fall has ushered Winter's freeze.

The Moon hangs high and patiently

Awaits my icy end.

Betrayed by our once healing light,

The air emits a frozen bite.

The burning Sun cannot be found.

What then will be thawing me?

Longing for the warming Sun,

I fear this will not end.

Despite this pressing, violent feud,

My hand I must extend.

As dawn slowly closes in,

Again the Sun begins to rise.

No longer filled with enmity,

I welcome morning's light.

Without me you have no merit

So this world, for now, we'll share it,

But one day this will all be mine.

Silence Is Golden

The well-dressed man tore both tickets simultaneously, in one swift motion. The perforation separated with ease and seemed to seal the evening's fate. With a smile and a nod he urged them to "Enjoy." The stubs, like passes for a bullet-train into the imagination, were promptly returned to the young couple. They smiled, anxiously, and strolled passed the ticket-taker.

With the Rubicon crossed, they made their way toward the platform. Concession attendants exchanged smiles with them as they passed the sweet, salty, sugary facade. Neither felt like throwing away any more wishes for temporary highs. Rather, their interest lay in the rush from each other's proximity. A brief glance assured, silently, that the feeling was indeed mutual.

Side by side, they entered the dimly-lit room. A light glow illuminated their ascent up the mountain of seats. Anxiety distilled into eager anticipation as they glided toward their resting places. The soft cushions hugged them in comfort, completely freeing them of any remnant worry.

It was then that they looked to the other, hoping that this relief had not passed them by. Their eyes locked into a gaze that froze time and space, transporting them into another realm, far beyond anyone else's perception. The room, nay, the world whirled around them in a blur of blindspots. For a brief eternity, they were the only ones in existence.

Darkness descended upon the theatre. The cold, black room now resembled a crypt in which to sacrifice all disbelief and mental inhibitions. Reborn, were they, by the light of the projector's eye. The loving pair reached for each other's hand, interlocking fingers as if completing a puzzle. Their hearts pumped blood faster into the unified fist. Eyes locked once more, sending them into the aether. They separated their lips like so many tickets. Moving closer, they shut their eyes - thus sealing all exits from this secret place. No turning back. Lust, anxiety, and fear melted together becoming them. A lover's alchemy. Their mouths closed tight on each other, soft and moist. The unified fist compressed with reassurance.

They smiled then, as they leaned back into their seats. A warmth flooding their bodies in that cold, dark crypt. They had sacrificed themselves and crossed the abyss unscathed. This moment would be with them forever. Without a single word, they knew. Despite a future of infinite possibilities, there would always be this. No one could take it from them. They squeezed each other's hand again as the film began its story, eager to know how it would all play out.

The Story of Housman's Athletes

I was in a band called "Housman's Athletes" for about 2 years. Toward the end of our ultimate demise I wrote this silly story as a kind of "faux bio." Only about 5 or 6 people have ever read it.

Here ya go...

The Story Of Housman's Athletes

The summer sun beats down without mercy. A hush sweeps through the arena. Only the low, gasping breaths of anticipation are heard from the crowd. Lord Housman boldly rests upon His Majesty's throne in his private balcony. He stands with angelic grace and approaches the railing. Gazing down at a hooded guard, he closes his eyes with a nod. The Lord then re-seats himself and strokes his beard with an eager, giddy satisfaction.

The guard acknowledges His Majesty's signal of commencement and opens the steel gate. From the dungeon emerge the five naked gladiators - Epsilon the Brave, Dijiclese the Brute, Christoph the Cunning Linguist, Kazmaticus the Mysterious, and Logan the Man-child. Chains connect these warriors as they confidently stroll to the center of the arena, dragging their legendary endowments in the sand. The crowd erupts in applause and whistles, while several fair maidens faint with excitement into a pool of their own orgasm. Together these men-of-men have lost not a single battle and today suggests nothing to the contrary.

With a wave of his hand, Housman signals another hooded guard. As the adjacent gate begins to rise, a low and ominous rumble is felt. Silence once again falls upon the audience. Wiping sweat from their brows, the chained band of nudists take their fighting positions. The rumble grows louder and everyone quickly realizes that Thomas the Elder's syphilitic rantings in the square that morning were true. From the abyssal darkness emerges the three-headed bestial guardian of Hell...Cerberus.

As blood pumps through the veins of the warriors' rippling, muscular bodies, they give each other a fearless nod and smirk. A deathly battle cry is exerted as these courageous souls race toward the dreaded beast. What transpires is glorious, shocking, inspiring, and yet altogether indescribable.

When the dust and animalistic death-rattles settle, the five naked gladiators stand victorious atop the mammoth, three-headed, disemboweled canine. The crowd once again leaps to their feet, save for the unconscious maidens, and congratulate with an almost deafening applause. Epsilon, Dijiclese, Christoph, Kazmaticus, and Logan the Man-child raise their gore-covered fists before taking a unified bow. In a thankful act of appreciation, they blow bloody kisses to the crowd. Lord Housman commands the five glistening bodies to line-up before him.

"Athletes! Of thine accomplishments, songs shall be writ! And if they not, then songs shall ye write!"

That night, His Majesty privately congratulates the victors with sweet meats, wine, and women. He acknowledges that they have surmounted many obstacles and accomplished great feats in their short duration together. He insists, however, that they have attained all that can be in a world such as theirs, surpassing even his own ruling power.

"Alas, ye can gain no more success...in this time. Eat, drink, and fornicate! For ye shall not see the morning. I have sent for the great magi, Ryanus of Greenwich, and he shall send ye into the beyond where thine talents and prowess shall make thee kings!"

The Athletes begin to indulge, and rightly so. A festive mess of music, dance, food, flesh, and wine ensues; such that would please Dionysus himself! The guests of honor perform traditional songs of their homeland while practicing a sensual ritual with the party patrons, introduced by Kazmaticus, involving bathing in goat's milk. Evening climaxes, coincidentally, in a massive orgy including noneother than Queen Housman herself; though in disguise. As the night wears on into an inebriated blur, they slowly fall into a complacent slumber. One by one, the soothing comfort of darkness takes hold of all five Athletes with smiles gracing their beautiful faces.

Eyes wide and gasping, they awake upon a stage with instruments and garments that are, to them, anachronistic. The defeaters of beasts large and small stare out into a sea of strange faces, dressed in similar garb, screaming and cheering. It seems as though kings they have become. Accepting the realization of Lord Housman's words, the majestic warriors of old give each other a familiar nod and smirk as they proceed to...how do you say...ROCK!

Here we go...

Ok...a blog.

I tried this once before, but got lazy & forgot about it. I'll try not to do that again.

Here you will be able to see some of my artwork in progress & read some of my short stories, poetry, music reviews, random rants, etc.

Enjoy...or don't.