Black Metal Week, and Why I Should Not Be Allowed Near a Kitchen

IMAGINARY WIZARDS SAVED MY LIFE

Right. Gather 'round close, my doves, my children, because your fuckup uncle Thomas is gonna lay some knowledge down on you. I was not always like I am now* - there was a time, in my youth, when I was pretty effing metal. I think this would be about 1990, when I was 8. I was so much cooler back then.

*Didn't I already use this as an intro here?

I was a pretty metal 8 year old. While the rest of my classmates were all about learning or something, I was all about Metallica and Guns and Roses. I was all about those three things, in that exact order. This was due entirely to two things; my sisters, and dinosaurs. Seriously. What is more black metal than dinosaurs? Well, some people from Norway, I guess. The applications of dinosaurs are far reaching, so we will simply accept their entry into the hateful brotherhood of black metal without question.

My sisters, though, made me like heavy metal before I even know what it was. They even started getting into the crazy stuff - I knew who Venom (holy fuck, that website will scar your soul) and Burzum were before I knew that China and Japan were different places*. It all faded away when they went to college, and my bastard friends introduced me to Weird Al Yankovic, who is decidedly not metal. I've hated them (and him!) ever since, but damn if I couldn't get his jaunty polka tunes out of my head for two or three years. Combined with the already pretty damn nerdy aspects of a lot of metal bands (Norse mythology! Made up names! Black capes!), I was doomed to never be the most popular girl at the party. Thankfully, I fell aside from the hard-core, and ended up eating lunch with the kids who had thick glasses instead of track marks.

*A repeating event of my youth. It last happened in 1998.

So I guess that was okay, because I think I'd otherwise end up 350 pounds, a metallica T-shirt stretched tight over my (intense!) frame, as I jammed more hot-dogs down my meth-mouthed craw hole, as I debate about the voice acting on Metallocalypse online. Which is what I imagine most black-metal devotees to do. That, and turn into bats. So, really, the point I'm going for, in the most roundabout, bad-journalism sort of way, is that metally and nerdy differ by, maybe, half a degree of social adjustment. And that one is markedly better than they other.

THE CITY SO RELATIVELY INOFFENSIVE THAT THEY NAMED IT TWICE

Right. Anyway. I'm in New York, and I already nearly burned part of the place down when I tried to make a soy-cheese pizza. My sister informed me, after the event, that it's illegal to remove the batteries from the fire alarm "Just because the thing is making too much noise." Well, whatevs, I fanned the smoke out of the window, and all is kosher here. People also keep asking me for directions too*, so I guess I'm fitting in?

*To which I respond "I have no idea who I am, where I am, or where I'm going."

As for blogging in New York. If I ever turn into this douchebag, Zach and James have every right to bludgeon me into a greasy spot on the floor. Granted, Gawker already took care of whatsisface, but I can't rely on some snarky media outlet to keep me grounded.

As for the much-vaunted Good Dressin' that goes on in this city, I've not seen much of it. The best dressed award goes to a rotund fellow on the subway, who was wearing a tweed suit and blue tye (omg is that spelled right? Is it Tie? OMG I DON'T HAVE ANY FRAME OF REFERENCE ANYMORE), tapping out "As the saints go marching in" on his umbrella. Whatever, I guess - there could also be a slight chance that my vaunted eye for fashion is, indeed, entirely fictional, like a piskie floating about my head, telling me lies.

No.

No, never, that is impossible.

Anyway, I'm going to make some meatless effing meatballs in all natural sauce, or whatever. David Foster Wallace positing an intrestin' thought in A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again (stop looking at me like that, I had to read something on the train) detailing the difference between people from urban and rural lifestyles when it comes to vacations, i.e. Cityfolk like to get away from the crowds and the noise to relax, but countryfolk (am I calling myself that? For serious? What is wrong with me?*) flock to the crowds, just because the sight of their farms and aminals and crops serve only to reinforce the fact that these things are their livelihood - they're pretty to look at, sure, but that adorable baby cow is just another profit in potentia, and to get all soppy and whistful about it means homelessness. I think a bug just bit me. Man, I hate it when people are smarter than me**.

*I've just had eight cups of tea, because I was too impatient to let it turn into iced tea. I CAN'T STOP SHAKING.

**This also happens a lot.