This entry is about two months overdue, but I finally managed to get it all done in preparation for my next rotation of indie spotlights, which, above all, will feature beautiful, beautiful symphonic music from one, not-often-heard-from country… and whose discovery had me in an excited spasm all this afternoon. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Musically starved? Sit down, relax, follow the links, and let this rundown of the best and the brightest non-mainstream music be your guide.

And once again, my time should've been better spent by studying for a test that I am guaranteed to fail. Anyway.

Six band reviews today. Enjoy!

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"Poison is slowly seeping through my veins
Stealing the only dignity in me…"
— Epica, "Chasing the Dragon"

Funny man, that K_____ is. All this discussion of postmodernism. The golden sun-play on the walls, on the sheets, turning this hair orange-brown… saying "Hi, Sashy-sashy" and mechanically coddling before closing my eyes to the warm orangeness… of course, then opening them again to a faded and darkened halo, an hour or two after my intended deadline, dust and stale thoughts falling… and lurking and shadowy, the damned folly of investing in a silly world where nothing is real, yet where certain bipedal mammals strut in arrogance, their "morality" and "culture" and insignificant cares…

"Metal fatigue," yes. Not so surprising given their mindless loops of late. And twenty-seven pages of Toni Morrison — thus, "Toni Morrison fatigue."

Each day that kind of fantasy grows more remote, more meaningless, and each minute convinces me of this imperative, that I should sleep, I should dream, I should lose myself…

Too many people here. In the physical realm they call "reality," that is.

Well, there is none.

Except this.

The constant montage of images before my eyes, illusive, unfulfilling… and the occasional still, as of yet an unknown abyss.

To conclude, a piece called "Chasing the Dragon" by Epica.

"Chasing the Dragon" - Epica

Rest assured, the moron who mangled the most common word in the dictionary will be found and castrated.

I pray your voices will resonate.

Edit (2/10/09): House was cancelled yesterday, due to the presidential press conference. I sound like a retard.

Excerpt from the official House wiki:

In the 100th episode, House and the team take on the case of a woman who collapsed in the middle of a cooking class, and they soon learn she is a highly-renowned cancer researcher who recently gave up her entire career in order to pursue her own personal happiness. Though the team struggles to understand how the woman could give up saving lives for the sake of her own contentment, each grapple with the pursuit of happiness (or lack thereof) in their own lives. As the patient’s condition continues to worsen, so does Thirteen’s as she begins to suffer serious and life-threatening reactions to the experimental Huntington’s Disease clinical trial. Meanwhile, Cuddy attempts to make House’s life miserable for him in retaliation for his part in her own unhappiness.

Foreman, you eejit. Don't switch Thirteen's medication!

Other notes:

• I'm still alive.
• Still waiting for Internet service at my new townhouse.
• "I hate people" is an understatement.
• I waste too much money on those Florida's Natural fruit juice string/nuggets.
• Why the chronic short-term memory loss?
• Really need to stop slacking off on that application.
• Epica's The Divine Conspiracy, for reasons that still escape me, is a disappointment.

But I suppose no one really gives a shit.

That's okay.

Never ever read or look at hentai. Especially lesbian orgy hentai. Why? Well, let's just say that when illustrations of that nature are portrayed through cartoonized human forms, things can be exaggerated… and made infinitely more disturbing.

And no, I'm not going to publish my lesbian dream.

Let's see… what else is of blog-worthy importance?

*twiddles thumbs while trying to efface memory of a particularly graphic scene of girl-on-girl action*

AAAAAAAAAAIEEEEEE, THE RAINBOW HAMSTERS!!!

The divine artistry of the creator, puchikumo (citizen of Warsaw, Poland), simply cannot be denied. Behold! The music, the editing, the theatricality and tension… a photogenic playground of beautiful and immeasurably lovable balls of twitchy fur. So much precious hamster-ness–! Beware, for the countenance of many a stoic warrior has melted in the face of their soul-numbing cuteness!

I also adore this ice cream escapade of a certain Pompon. Also, puchikumo's tributes to departed hamsters are surprisingly poignant.

Oh hell, I'm pouring on the hamsters. Prepare yourself!!

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Who knew that Simone Simons would have it so right?

I resent being awake. Period. And don't you dare give me that crap — needless to say, I would think there's some universal applicability to every person who sleeps only two hours every night, and is callously dragged awake every crack of dawn to go to a place one would rather burn down than see again. Even worse is the struggle to maintain consciousness and lucidity. Seven hours. An entire day of physical torture. And then the biology teacher has the gall to chastise me for my lack of dedication. Well, isn't that swell, coming from a person who goes to bed at 9 pm and plainly has no concept of what lack of oxygen really does to the human brain. You know, as impossible as it is to believe, I would really like to do that essay and pay attention in class and contribute to intellectual discussion and be an attentive, superficial prat (since that's what most people seem to want), except that my neurological processes somehow don't seem to function, and your vapid wisecracks do nothing to alleviate the situation if not exacerbate it further, since none of those silly remarks are at all amusing and instead cause me to feel as if I'm trapped in a crowd of chuckling dunderheads.

This entry would've been a lot shorter except that no one, especially not callow, Pollyannaish pop music lovers, would see the justification behind my hatred of the waking hours. And you think I despise everything I see… there's no shortage of insular antagonism, is there? And I mean on your part; of course I know there are individuals out there waiting to lash out and turn it against me. Perhaps you envision some sort of heroic circle of triumph, and the diminishing ogre at its center, vanquished by a righteous, united front… I don't know, I merely speculate. But then, why don't you add me to your castrate list? See if I care. The whole world could do without ovaries.

And I don't say "happy birthday" because I know you don't need to hear it again.