  It is dark and wonderfully gloomy out. And I'm loving every second of it. I feel as if my soul cries out for a winter's day. For a gust a wind. For a chill in the air. For a harsh pounding of a true rainstorm.
I long to see flashes of yellow bolt across the sky. And to hear the snap of thunder in my ears. Unfortunately, that's not going to happen any time soon. This morning may be refreshingly gloomy, but the afternoon should bring an unbearable heat, once again. Yay! For triple digit weather.
If melting was possible, I'd already have lost my legs. Ew. What is this puddle of goo I'm standing in? Oh, just my legs. You see they melted about an hour ago. I thought you looked shorter today.
Sigh. I'm depressing myself, so let's move on to the actual point of this blog  music. Yes, music. I'm happy to say, I've been receiving good feedback, in this department. Not that I was worried, mind you. I have impeccable taste in music.
Heh. Seriously though, I am glad everybody is enjoying it. So. This morning I've been all over the place, but I've settled on some good old fashioned punk rock. The band is Propagandhi, and the song is, urlLink Back To The Motor League . Enjoy.
::Back To The Motor League:: I like to party fucking hard. I like my rock and roll the same. Don't give a fuck if I burn out. Don't give a fuck if I fade away. So back to the Motor-League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tortured-artist, college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum. Back to the Motor League I go.
Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a live grenade - of play-acting "anarchists" and Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge. Fuck off. Who cares? I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit. Fuck off.
Who cares? About your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn. It never ceases to amaze and as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of - Mouthed feet. Eaten hats. Teated bulls. Amish phone-books.
Drunken brawls. But what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of eSwill and Chickenshit Conformists. With their fists in the air; like-father, like-son "rebels bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits. " Lord, hear our prayer: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed.
Back to the Motor League. I guess life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges. So. How many "burns" did you catch?
Reread the lyrics if you have to...there are many in this song. 
