maleficentmoi

We got a new record player. It's been too fucking long. We broke our last one by leaving the fucking turn table on. It rotated to its death, poor thing. What is funny about my obsession for records is that I'll play shit on it that I'd never listen to anywhere else. What's up with that? I have a terrible copy of "Houses of the Holy" and I love it as it is: all scratched up and skipping everywhere. Maybe it's a throw back to my youth. Maybe I haven't really recovered from that coma (I'm lying, I never was in a coma; I was just really, really tired). Maybe there's a weird aesthetic to scratchy, skipping records that a part of me desires greatly? Yeah, but what part? My ears? Not likely. They're just ears. My mind? Debatable, I suppose, but don't like giving my brain credit for uniqueness. My heart? Just cholesterol in there... Well, who knows? It's probably my ass. On another note, "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" comes out tomorrow on DVD. I loved that fucking movie. It shall be mine. As Jason Spaceman sang once, "Oh, happy days..."

I love this picture. I stole it from somebody. I can't remember who...



Dog looks pissed. I can't tell if it's been edited or not, but who cares? It made me laugh.