Let’s write a death metal song!

Nothing like a little creative moment to keep the world spinning on its axis…and what better way to say “I care” than death metal? I mean, really: poignant lyrics, moving, expansive instrumentals…

Am so not going to see those bands tomorrow night.

Will tell Tom that I want to do something more fun. Something a little less painful, like driving a drill bit through my head, or ramming shards of glass into my eyeballs, piece by sharp little piece. Or, you know, shooting pool. If he’s hell bent (no pun intended) on seeing the six squealing bands of mayhem and destruction, he’s gonna have to find someone else to go along with him.

Does this make me close-minded? Well, yes. In a very literal way, too. Spending six hours or so watching these bands that all sound alike (I did visit their individual myspace pages and listen to their music before coming to this conclusion) will likely split my head wide open.

So, close-minded I am, and prefer to stay.

On the way home from work, Her Beanness and I made up our own death metal song.

You can pretty much sing about anything…because nobody can hear what the hell you’re saying. All you need is just a really angry voice, the ability to howl as if someone put your genitals in a vice, a few lines depicting brutal aggression mixed with love, the cursory reference to Satan, and some super loud, high-speed, clangy guitar chords.

We didn’t have a guitar.

So we opened the windows and began our downtown serenade for Indians fans who’d been enjoying the open air. Until then, anyway.

Here is our death metal song. Scream along to the words in bolded caps, with your face twisted into an evil sneer, and chant menacingly the words in itals:

Chicken POT PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEE
You’re hot, so hot, dammit — hot as hell
Steaming like the devil himself (the devil, the devil)
Coming OOOOOUUUUT of eternity’s oven
You make me want to DIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!

(Enter hard and racing guitar chords here)

Chicken. Chicken. Chicken POT PIEEEEEEEEEEE
Chicken. Chicken. Chicken POT PIEEEEEEEEEE

(Add loud menacing and repetitive drum solo here)

There is no way to keep hope alive,
We are DOOOOOOMED if we even TRYYYYYY
Man’s inhumanity to poultry makes me CRRYYYYYYYYYY
Crunchin’ on the vicious, rotting crust (crust…crust)
Of my CHICKEN POT PIIIIEEEEEEE!!!

So, we were hungry. Sue us.

A fly in the ointment

So, you know how you’re walking through life, planning and doing, when suddenly you’re thrown for a loop? I’m having one of those days. Thrown, but in a good way. My friend Jen (not Mrs. Kargakos, but Mrs. S) calls me at work to say that Tom wants me to go to a concert with him tomorrow night.

Backstory: I met Tom at Jen’s (Mrs S, not Mrs. K’s) Superbowl Party this year. We bonded amidst a flurry of off-the-cuff exchanges about….seriously….glory holes at rest stops and the idea of creating a “One Tank Glory Hole Trip ” book ala Neil Zurcher. The subject matter had been raised by John. Tom and I just, oh, elaborated on it. Pretty much all night. With 7,000 new jokes. We also were fighting over who would get Jen’s daughter Elaine’s fake jewelry and stuffed animals. (She was walking around choosing who was special enough to be the recipient – we turned it into a contest. He looked quite pretty in the tiara.)

Anyway, off we are going to Peabody’s tomorrow night to see: Solipsist
w/ To Envy The Horrid, Bloodwolf, Buried By Angels, The Thrown, Hollowpoint, Nova Prospect, Painting My Horror, and The Apocalyptic Fist Of The Black Death

The. Apocalyptic. Fist. Of. The. Black. Freakin’. Death.

Are you laughing as hard as me? Try this on for size — I’m a blues fan, but when not listening to blues, you will find Cat Stevens, REM, Queen, Bob Dylan, The Stones, Counting Crows and Death Cab for Cutie in the Altima cd player.

So, um….To Envy the Horrid ? Probably not likely to sound too familiar.

At any rate, me and Tom, whose last name I don’t even know, who looks like Simon Cowell and is a mere 30 years old, will be no doubt meditating to the dulcet tones of Bloodwolf in about 27 hours. And he’s not from okcupid, PoF, Lunch Date or speed dating. He’s from my very regular, very non-dating life.

See – thrown for a loop. A good loop, but a loop, nevertheless.