drallaronmoth.blogspot.com: an introducxhjtgjkhoij

drallaronmoth.blogspot.com: an introducxhjtgjkhoij

  

"Hell is ahead
   Hell is ahead
   Hell is ahead"
        - Business Lady, 2007

 The fucking point of a blog

    Of the many things I am not at all confident about, one of the few exceptions is my ability to ejaculate words onto a page like an ape in captivity whose typewriter has been stolen by his manager, who is himself a slightly smaller ape. However, there are in fact many ways to vomit solipsistic scribbles onto a page, many of which I am personally practiced in (besides literally employing my own bodily excretions). With that in mind, why am I starting this blog? People on the internet said it was a great idea, mom. Besides that, I've thought of hosting a website or some sort of online bulletin to publicly masturbate into for a good while now, and if someone cooler than me tells me to do something, well, by golly I guess I will, ma'am.

Drallar on who?

    Moth is not a person, it is a planet. Specifically, it's a planet in Alan Dean Foster's Commonwealth, and it holds host to a booming financial district and (excuse me whilst I pick my nose) a diverse global community of people-sized bugs and people-sized people (we tried looking for the bug-sized people, but we just can't see clearly). Let me be clear: The Thranx are hot. I would bang a Thranx. The Tar-Aiym Krang is yaoi. I named this blog after a location of this book because it just jumped out from the dark caverns of my mindcage, partly because I'm partial to a vivid description of the shopping district as being so full of scents you could get a full-course meal by sitting down and breathing deeply. It's a cute book, not much deeper than that, but I like it, fuck you. I've only read the first of Mr. Foster's many supposedly good-to-mediocre pulp scy-fy novellas, but it's close to my heart for Complicated Reasons. You see, well, ahah, there's this band...

Obsession is healthy to me, dammit

    Some time in 2023, when I wasn't as different from now as I'd comfortably prefer to imagine, I discovered this band called Osees which blew my fuckin mind and simply forced me to abandon the dogshit stoner band known as K*ng G****rd a*d t** L***** ****** to binge Ol' John Dwyer's entire discography. This led me to learning about Fort Thunder, an art collective/diy living space/drug den/chicken coop that formed the beating heart of the late 90s' rock and noise scene in Providence, Rhode Island. I'm still learning new things about that whole shebang to this day, and it's thoroughly invaded my thoughts and feelings. What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm a weeaboo. Anyway, one of these bands, which happened to be John Dwyer's first, was Tar-Aiym Krang!, also known simply as Krang, which is unique in that nobody seems to know or care about it besides a few select individuals close to its history, a couple internet randos (including a mysterious unnamed editor of the book's wikipedia page??), and me, who is not an internet rando because I know him very well. Too well, I'd say. Anyway, I love this fucking band. There's nothing else quite like it, maybe Polvo or other noise-rock pioneers, but God, I feel insane for liking what little there is with how much the few people in the know seem to downplay it. It's kind of kraut-y, kind of prog-y, but describing it completely just eludes my tiny sober mind. Thankfully, you can listen to their entire discography on Bandcamp kindly archived by "probably Jeff" or on YouTube, kindly archived by me and one of the aforementioned internet randos. Also, brief shout-out to the Osees Archive. I love you, Artie. This is all your fault. If I had any money, I'd give you every penny.

Thank God. Now I don't have to mention Tar-Aiym Krang! ever again

    Feels good to get a load off, doesn't it? Sorry, I was talking to my metaphorical dick, not yours. Ghost-dicks aside, I think I've pretty clearly established the things most important to me other than blacking out in front of my keyboard. I love music (but I hate doing it), and art (but I hate doing it), and reading (but FUCK what am I doing), and being so very very confident in the sanctity of my mind and body. I often tell myself that nothing ever changes--usually in a very whiny sing-song voice for some reason--but that is rationally and obviously as false as any concept can be. Hell, I just moved out from the rural Ohio woodland panopticon I called my home for the last thirteen years into a suburban Ohio apartment panopticon with my now-slightly-less-fuck-off-enormous-but-still-regrettably-nuclear family. That's change, right? Whatever. Friends will be made (for once), love will be shared (maybe), and we're all gonna live forever (for sure).

Everything will be okay

    I have a handful of personal mantras--such as the preceding two--I like to repeat privately to myself. This is very healthy behavior, as you know. I couldn't tell you if I believe them or not--I don't believe most of the things I think. You shouldn't either. Maybe there's something profound to be unearthed in this ridiculous rambling screed, or maybe you're just looking through the bars. Either way, I hope you enjoy watching this dumb little monkey jerk off. I'll be editing the theme of my blog to be as shit as possible.

 

After assaulting your eyes, here's something for your ears. It's brought me comfort in the past.