Auto Immunity Explained (away)
This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 24th, 2006 at 9:58 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Headlock / Imogen Heap
Word Of The Day: Babag / Argument or fight
Hot Fucking News Flash: Auto Immune Disorders All The Rage This Season.
Auto immune disorders have finally assumed pole-position in the race for trendiest malady. The Davis’ were quoted late yesterday as saying
“We’re ahead of the curve, as usual. We were auto-immune before it was cool. Now everybody wants their antibodies addled, but you know what? Whatever. Auto immune disorders are like lazy eyes, it’s only cool to have one if you don’t want one, that’s why we’re cool. All these poseurs tryin’ to get all auto immune ‘n split now, it’s just like …pff. Whatever.”
It’s true my wife came home from the doctor yesterday, and announced she has an auto immune disorder now too. If you’re keeping track, that’s now three of us, 1, my friend Ken has REDD 2, I have Alopecia, and 3, my wife just found out she has this one, Sjogren’s Syndrome. What the fuck? Have you wondered why it’s suddenly all the rage for a person’s immune system to attack their own body? I did, until, reviewing my data, I realized
Auto Immunity is a side effect of Enlightenment. Of course. First Ken, then me, now Marci? That’s exactly the sequence in which we respectively became permanently stabilized in Nondual Consciousness. We were all sitting around the barbie-Q one day, grilling some Auto Immune Soylent Green Sausages, and Ken took a bite of one and was like,
“Dude, that’s weird. Taste this, does this taste weird to you?”
And I took a bite, and Ihhzz like “uh, that doesn’t taste weird, that tastes fucking RAW dude, it ain’t DONE.”
and Marci was like
“You’re full of shit, Stuart, you’re trying to hoard the A.I.S.G. Sausages, and that ain’t gonna fly!”
and she took like a HUGE bite, and puked a martian hue of bile, and we were all three, like
“Oh my God, that is raw, uncooked Soylent Green Auto Immune yuckiness!”
and just then my neighbor stuck his head over the fence, and he was like
“Uh, you guys, Soylent Green Auto Immune Sausages are made of enlightened PEOPLE”
and we all screamed AHGHHHHHHHHHHH. And in that triumvirate scream, we realized utterly and without limit, the simple suchness of our Whatness. ( So shove it up your buttness).
Auto Immunity? Sure. We got it. All three of us. Small price to pay for a trans-temporal pass to the Infinite Bazaar of Who I really R. K?
What a relief to get to the bottom of this, to know there’s no need to seek further explanation. Like, clinical explanation. I am so fucking sick of (unenlightened) doctors prattling on about cells, and blood, and THIS bacteria and THAT virus. You know what doctors call disease? MONEY. Every affliction is another pyramid scheme, I think fucking Amway invented convalescence. Doctors are addicted to the drug of healing, which can only occur in the stream of time, which is a mother fucking ILLUSION. Wake up, doctors of the world, so bent on fighting auto immunity, you’re fighting you’re own awakening, nothing more.
Hey, I think I just converted.
Auto immunity is one thing, and one thing only: Sweet Freedom. Total, unencumbered Mind is frying the circuitry of my body, end of the story. There’s nothing that can be done. Do I seem blase’?
I would be more excited about this revolutionary medical discovery, but it’s not my first. Ironically, even though I’m Dr. Dean Edel’s nemesis, I have made innumerable medical discoveries in my tenure as a rat in the Lab of God. My first and most alarming discovery was that doctor’s are mortal. One spear through the throat, and they’re dead as disco. Repeatedly repeated research confirmed this -thanks to me- now indisputable fact. A correlate insight was that doctor’s -once speared through the throat- cannot be revived. Once dead, their body parts (minus throat) might as well be fed to cattle, or …if… if there was only some other productive use for precious human anatomy, especially vital organs. But there isn’t. My research conclusively demonstrated that once the soul has fled the body through a spear hole in the throat, or a massive puncture wound through the neck, or even a gaping wound below the chin, above the sternum, there’s no use for any body parts -not even a doctor’s- save an experimenter’s personal sexual gratification.
My next medical discovery was that of doctor’s peculiar, fierce aversion to participating in medical research, especially as a subject. I noted an almost allergic reaction on the part of medical professionals when approached -especially with a spear, or spears- to support the advancement of biological science. That’s unfortunate. But every obstacle serves to strengthen and focus our commitment to FINDING A CURE to doctors, and so learning of this patho-phobic response to spears, I quickly adopted the blow gun. One impact-injection sodium pentothal dart does it.
What was I saying? Something about Auto Immunity?
Ten Oxes Of Zen In My Dot Den
This entry was posted on Monday, January 23rd, 2006 at 7:06 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Across This Antheap / XTC
Word Of The Day: Vaticide / The murder of a prophet
You guys gotta get a daughter. Oh my dot-God. Daughters are better than angels. Angels are cool, don’t get me wrong, but they’re aloof. They’re a bit stuffy. I mean, they’re literally high and mighty.
Daughters -dots- on the other hand, have all the celestial mightiness and none of the behavioral tightiness. They’re lax. They chill. They can wig out, or get real still. You got a dot pill?
Yesterday my daughter walked up to me with a package of paints and was like “dad, let’s do this shit.” I’z like Ah-ite. We went tribal with that shit. We looked like a fucking neon cave painting when we were done, and then we grabbed the camera and shot some stuff in the Golden hour, spinning madly with the camera in the light of descending Sun, two caucasian aborigonees of Freaksylvania, and we giggled and laughed and it was the Divine Shit. What I feel for, and with my daughter is a singular emotion, I don’t feel it with any other human in the World. Of course it’s Love, real love, and I do feel that for each and every human being in the World, but my daughter is like a specific, rare diamond that refracts the light of God in a way that no other human prism does. She is a color of Love that does not exist anywhere else in Reality, and my heart is the only one with the father-Eye to see it. I don’t know. It’s not something that lends itself to language. But it is MIRACULOUS. That first year was really a bitch, being a dad those first twelve months is like eating one of the twelve-foot super subs filled with feces. A bite a day, that’s how the first year passes. You’re just not on the radar. the baby radar doesn’t read “dad” signals. But right about the age of one, the Dot gets Dad. Since my daughter’s first birthday, it’s been ten Oxes of Zen in my Dot-den.
Get Pregz. Go on, make a baby. You might be 12, or 14, or 25, or 35, or 45, or 60, or 72 years old, but just make sure you either knock someone up or get knocked up this month. It’s National Knock Someone Up Month, my call.
I Swear To Katie Holms
This entry was posted on Friday, January 20th, 2006 at 7:05 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Dying / XTC
Word Of The Day: Yare / Nimble, brisk; ready.
You guhrlz. I am SO sore. I’ve started lifting weights again. I tried quitting ya’ll, cuz it’s hard. But I’ve settled again on the ole yoga / weightlifting oscillation. yoga one day, weights the next. well, the first three weightlifting sessions have left me SO FUCKING SORE I CAN’T MOAN. Oh my Godless Body. I feel like I went to cellular prison and was micro-raped in every minute subdivision of my corpus. Pride alone kept me from puking, fainting, weeping, but not shaking. Oh, I shook. I had to steady myself agains the God damn wall in the club like six times. I couldn’t hold my own protein drink when the exercise was over. I was attended by the club’s candy striper, kind enough to lift the fruity blend to my quivering lips, nursing me ever … so … slowly back to a strength sufficient for operating my motor vehicle safely. I still urinated all over the floor of my Honda once inside. Trembling tendons, helpless to check the yellow deluge. Shame, and finally surrender to the warm taboo.
But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. Allow me to begin by saying, I’m not here to judge. Who am I to judge? I’m not. If I were to judge, I’d say I’m pretty fucking awesome, but I’m not, so I won’t. But the star people of Origen 5 have interceded again, imploring me to address a few minor features in our Lower Quadrants. Do you mind? You may decline, but you will, of course be abducted and forced to lift weights on Suptoolafore, home planet of the people of Origen 5. The gravity there is punishing, ten pounds becomes twenty, and so on. So, endure a few more moments here, in the gentle, forgiving gravity of Earth, and allow the Origen 5ers to do their thing.
THEY want you to know that:
Eager is a word that means: Having or showing keen interest, intense desire, or impatient expectancy.
Anxious is a word that means: Uneasy and apprehensive about an uncertain event or matter; worried. Attended with, showing, or causing anxiety. (Spent an anxious night waiting for the test results)
If you say “I’m eager to see you” it means can’t wait to see you.
If you tell someone, “I’m anxious to see you” it means I’m experiencing anxiety at the thought of being with you. I’m going to vomit when I see you. You’re the Devil.
Eager=wish you were here.
Anxious=wish you were dead.
They’re different. Very different. Use “eager” to convey expectant anticipation. Use “anxious” to indicate unease, apprehension, worry, and ANXIETY. Wonder why the word anxious and the word anxiety are oh so close in spellling? That’s because they’re variants of a common principal. The bellicose, reactive citizens of Suptoolafore wanted you to know that if you keep FUXXING using them interchangeably, as synonyms, they’ll thread your nipples with rusty needles.
Who am I to judge? I haven’t known what day it is since I turned 18. I once shoved a sapling in my ass and fingered a hole in the ground.
They asked me to further enumerate their grievances against -their words- the stupid fucking morons who make sausage of syntax and semantics. So, they also wanted to mention these distincitons:
Jealous: Threatened, fearful, or wary of being SUPPLANTED; apprehensive of LOSING affection or position. If you’re jealous, you’re resentful or bitter in rivalry; jealous of the success of others. Inclined to suspect rivalry. A jealous person is intolerant of disloyalty or infidelity. They are territorial, protective of a certain status.
Contrast that with:
Envy: A COVETOUS feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.
The object of such feeling: Their new pool made them the envy of their neighbors.
The main difference here, if I may, is
Jealousy involves fear of LOSING something. You have it, you don’t want to lose it.
Envy involves desire to GAIN, acquire, or attain something. You don’t have it, but you want it.
Once we remember that, it’s nothing at all to recall:
“I could care less” means I CARE. IT MATTERS TO ME. THIS COUNTS. IT BEARS IMPORTANCE TO ME. I GIVE A FUCKING SHIT.
“I could NOT care less” means, just like it says, I COULD NOT CARE LESS. I DO NOT CARE. IT BEARS NO SIGNIFICANCE TO ME AT ALL. THERE IS NO WAY MY CONCERN COULD DIMINISH.
Special aside to professional atheletes: GET IT FUCKING STRAIGHT. They’re opposites. Now, I could not care less which one you use, as long as you say what you mean. The Origen 5ers COULD CARE LESS. Those high-strung fuckers are sick of this shit.
One more, then we’re done for today.
The word is “regardless”. Only child molestors and standing U.S. Presidents use IRregardless. See, the word -regard- is already modified by the suffix “less.” Only Satan on Sunday would put “IR” in front of REGARDLESS. Yeah, you can find that piece of fucking shit word in the dictionary, there are almost a million words in English, and thousands of them will lower your I.Q. If you really want to sound that stupid and demean an elegant tongue, just take the short cut and become a meth head, you fucking spiritual colostomy bag.
Say IRregardless again, and I swear to Katie Holms I will set the microwave on “1″ and cook a litter of kittens in a motion so slow even Hell will scream “NO.”
I Swear To Katie Holms
This entry was posted on Friday, January 20th, 2006 at 7:05 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Dying / XTC
Word Of The Day: Yare / Nimble, brisk; ready.
You guhrlz. I am SO sore. I’ve started lifting weights again. I tried quitting ya’ll, cuz it’s hard. But I’ve settled again on the ole yoga / weightlifting oscillation. yoga one day, weights the next. well, the first three weightlifting sessions have left me SO FUCKING SORE I CAN’T MOAN. Oh my Godless Body. I feel like I went to cellular prison and was micro-raped in every minute subdivision of my corpus. Pride alone kept me from puking, fainting, weeping, but not shaking. Oh, I shook. I had to steady myself agains the God damn wall in the club like six times. I couldn’t hold my own protein drink when the exercise was over. I was attended by the club’s candy striper, kind enough to lift the fruity blend to my quivering lips, nursing me ever … so … slowly back to a strength sufficient for operating my motor vehicle safely. I still urinated all over the floor of my Honda once inside. Trembling tendons, helpless to check the yellow deluge. Shame, and finally surrender to the warm taboo.
But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. Allow me to begin by saying, I’m not here to judge. Who am I to judge? I’m not. If I were to judge, I’d say I’m pretty fucking awesome, but I’m not, so I won’t. But the star people of Origen 5 have interceded again, imploring me to address a few minor features in our Lower Quadrants. Do you mind? You may decline, but you will, of course be abducted and forced to lift weights on Suptoolafore, home planet of the people of Origen 5. The gravity there is punishing, ten pounds becomes twenty, and so on. So, endure a few more moments here, in the gentle, forgiving gravity of Earth, and allow the Origen 5ers to do their thing.
THEY want you to know that:
Eager is a word that means: Having or showing keen interest, intense desire, or impatient expectancy.
Anxious is a word that means: Uneasy and apprehensive about an uncertain event or matter; worried. Attended with, showing, or causing anxiety. (Spent an anxious night waiting for the test results)
If you say “I’m eager to see you” it means can’t wait to see you.
If you tell someone, “I’m anxious to see you” it means I’m experiencing anxiety at the thought of being with you. I’m going to vomit when I see you. You’re the Devil.
Eager=wish you were here.
Anxious=wish you were dead.
They’re different. Very different. Use “eager” to convey expectant anticipation. Use “anxious” to indicate unease, apprehension, worry, and ANXIETY. Wonder why the word anxious and the word anxiety are oh so close in spellling? That’s because they’re variants of a common principal. The bellicose, reactive citizens of Suptoolafore wanted you to know that if you keep FUXXING using them interchangeably, as synonyms, they’ll thread your nipples with rusty needles.
Who am I to judge? I haven’t known what day it is since I turned 18. I once shoved a sapling in my ass and fingered a hole in the ground.
They asked me to further enumerate their grievances against -their words- the stupid fucking morons who make sausage of syntax and semantics. So, they also wanted to mention these distincitons:
Jealous: Threatened, fearful, or wary of being SUPPLANTED; apprehensive of LOSING affection or position. If you’re jealous, you’re resentful or bitter in rivalry; jealous of the success of others. Inclined to suspect rivalry. A jealous person is intolerant of disloyalty or infidelity. They are territorial, protective of a certain status.
Contrast that with:
Envy: A COVETOUS feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.
The object of such feeling: Their new pool made them the envy of their neighbors.
The main difference here, if I may, is
Jealousy involves fear of LOSING something. You have it, you don’t want to lose it.
Envy involves desire to GAIN, acquire, or attain something. You don’t have it, but you want it.
Once we remember that, it’s nothing at all to recall:
“I could care less” means I CARE. IT MATTERS TO ME. THIS COUNTS. IT BEARS IMPORTANCE TO ME. I GIVE A FUCKING SHIT.
“I could NOT care less” means, just like it says, I COULD NOT CARE LESS. I DO NOT CARE. IT BEARS NO SIGNIFICANCE TO ME AT ALL. THERE IS NO WAY MY CONCERN COULD DIMINISH.
Special aside to professional atheletes: GET IT FUCKING STRAIGHT. They’re opposites. Now, I could not care less which one you use, as long as you say what you mean. The Origen 5ers COULD CARE LESS. Those high-strung fuckers are sick of this shit.
One more, then we’re done for today.
The word is “regardless”. Only child molestors and standing U.S. Presidents use IRregardless. See, the word -regard- is already modified by the suffix “less.” Only Satan on Sunday would put “IR” in front of REGARDLESS. Yeah, you can find that piece of fucking shit word in the dictionary, there are almost a million words in English, and thousands of them will lower your I.Q. If you really want to sound that stupid and demean an elegant tongue, just take the short cut and become a meth head, you fucking spiritual colostomy bag.
Say IRregardless again, and I swear to Katie Holms I will set the microwave on “1″ and cook a litter of kittens in a motion so slow even Hell will scream “NO.”
Walken On Sunshine
This entry was posted on Thursday, January 19th, 2006 at 6:50 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Walking On Sunshine / Katrina And The Waves
Word Of The Day: Daedal / Ingeniously contrived or intricate; skillfully and artistically crafted
I know who I’m voting for.
Non-dual Nature of Coffee Enimas
This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 17th, 2006 at 6:49 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Headlock / Imogen Heap
Word Of The Day: Cacoethes / A bad habit or insatiable urge
Thank you, thank you. You’re really wonderful. Yes really, please (waving from giant neon hovercraft, floating over a throng of adoring public).
So, I’m doing coffee enimas now, in an attempt to detox my liver and colon. My liver needs help, you gurlz. It’s fucking good for your liver and skwit. You should try it and snit. It could fix your shit and snit. Here’s my prescription for whatever ails you:
Prepare: Arabica blend. Espresso grind. Cool to room temperature.
1, Fill enima bag with contents of coffee pot.
2, Fill colon with contents of enima bag.
3, Fill porcelein oracle with contents of colon.
4, Fill room with glow of healthy, ebullient trikaya radiance.
I doused about a half gallon of Starbucks French Roast through the Brown Crown this morning, and I report: General bouyancy. Pervading sense of transparency. Rock hard erections, increased girth. Higher SAT scores. Decreased domestic violence. Infra-red vision. Ultra violet aura.
Even barring those phenomenal results, who wouldn’t want two ways to imbibe the beans? Color me a holistic whore, dumpin’ some on the tongue, pumpin some up the bung - and I’ll confess, I thank GOD I don’t have to choose between the two. You might as well make a new mother decide which siamese twin the doctor will kill in surgical separation. This caffeinated coupling is a cathartic catholicon, gurhlz. I fucking have a bounce in my step, people. What can I tell you? Get the edge.
Sure, I see a culture forming around this pratice. In the 70’s we saw Key Parties, the 80’s a rise in alternative medicine, 90’s brought the big bang of coffee shops -Starbucks, Caribou Coffee, Seattle’s Best - a coffee shop on every corner. The new Millenia marks the synthesis of these three epochs. Key parties become caffeine parties, holistic becomes hole-istic, and the commercial super nova that is coffee morphs into a curative social ritual. People will gather in the tens, then hundreds. The taboo of anal (first softened by the advent of truly populist pornography) finally gone, salons emerge, the coffee “shop” shifts into the mystic coffee clinic. “Mystic”, because essentially it’s a metaphor for non-duality. Two diametrically opposed apertures, synchronized in twin-ship. The Entrance and the Exit, could they be anything butt the turnstile of What IS and What Isn’t, the Wheel upon which all form and emptiness circulates itself, respiring expansion and deflation of innumerable Kosmos? “Coffee” cuz that’s the agent of insight. “Clinic” cuz it heals. The future of love is here. Take a sip with those lips, slip its funnel in your tunnel. The one on the top is the one on the bottom. The alchemists called this correspondance; As below, so above.
Enima bags are $12 at Walgreens. What are you waiting for?
downward, dog
This entry was posted on Monday, January 16th, 2006 at 6:49 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: I’m The Man Who Murdered Love / XTC
Word Of The Day: Haecceity / [from L. haec, this] /hek-SEE-ih-ty/ Scholastic Philos. that which gives something its unique quality: thisness (compare quiddity, whatness)
You people are wonderful. Thank you.
Hey, I went and did yoga again yesterday, been at it every day for while now. I’m trying to get my fucking pelvis back in track from so much jacking the base went packing. it’s TURNED. so, i went to a REAL yoga class yesterday, with Indian accents, and live music, and long poses. it’s the holding that hurts, Tom Petty sung it and I felt it yesterday, the waiting is the hardest part. when will this #!@$ asana be OVER, dear lord?
it opened new parts of me. like the cleptomaniac.
“This yoga mat is awesome”
chill, dude.
“It’s red, though. Deep, luscious red.”
Just hold the pose.
“I want this fucking mat. Like, forever. This red mat is mine. Listen chicken Stu, when have you EVER seen a red yoga mat this cool, this new, this perfect.”
I… it’s not ours. It’s not right.
“You’re such a conventional cunt. We’re not at bible camp, okay PussyMcfraidy Cat? I’m taking the fucking mat with me, and that’s the last of it.”
No you’re not.
“Yes I am, and if you say squat about it i will shit our pants right now and publicly shame you in a manner from which you will never recover, you vain visage of vanity.”
Don’t.
My wife walked over. “Honey, what are you doing? Are you… Put that back sweetie. That’s not our yoga mat.”
“Yeah, I’m taking it though. It’s red. You can’t find red, and it’s squishy. They have, like 200 of them in every color here, but not red, i’ll never find red again, i have…”
“Put it back, sweetie. You can’t take that.”
“OK.”
I waited. She turned, walked to changing room, and I put the mat in my car, and drove home with my brand new, shiny, squishy, ruby red yoga mat, and I LOVE it and bitches, I would steal that shit again and again and again. Oh man, daddy likes red.
I’m off to the lost and found at the club to see if there’s anything cool to “reclaim.”
downward, dog.
Self Flagellation After 9.11
This entry was posted on Sunday, January 15th, 2006 at 6:48 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Brown Guitar / XTC
Word Of The Day: Stridulate / To make a shrill creaking noise by rubbing together special bodily structures — used esp. of male insects (as crickets or grasshoppers)
WOOOOOOOO!!! It’s Sunday, the LORD’s day. Way.
I am so sore, girlz. I did some yoga yesterday that turned my muscles and tendons into Sushi. It’s nice.
Also nice: The weather. OH GOD the WEATHER is so fucking fantastic in Colorado. I love love love it. Take your pants off and get your dance on.
I just finished a two day fast. I was gonna do three, but then my friend Ken was like “Why are you fasting?’ Cuz I feel fat, I said. “You will lose muscle, not fat, with this stupid fasting. Go exercise.”
And I did, and I am, and I will. BUT I’m gonna supplement the rigorous regimine with a compliment of speed. That’s all I need, some speed to take the lead and seed my weightloss weeds.
just kidding. i’m going to use self-flagellation. it’s safe, it’s cheap, and it’s healthy.
Fasting for purification, good. Fasting for weight loss? Eating disorder. Tee Hee.
So, I ate a banana and it’s all good now. Then I did the mofo yoga mojo in my white dojo and I am super strong, you knowjo?
Still writing book. About 120 pages into it now. Ken Wilber is my editor on this one, gang. You may remember him from the way he changed the fabric of reality. I just read his forthcoming book Integral Spirituality and I’m still crawling around looking for my head. Anyone? Bueller? I am DEAD serious. I think it’s the most important book I’ve ever read in my entire life. Even outdoing Sex, Ecology, Spirituality. Integral Spirituality is profound beyond measure. For those of you who think you’ve read all the Wilber, you haven’t. This one will inject a dose of Kosmo-Shakti into your tri-kaya bodies that leaves nothing but a lucid ~?~!~?~ where your ! used to be. It’s a coffee enima up God’s brown cathedral, if you get me. It will transigure every angel’s vital organs for millenia to come. I CAN’T SAY how fucking IS the What has become in that Kensho of Ken.
XTC Ecstasy
This entry was posted on Friday, January 13th, 2006 at 6:47 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: No Thugs In Our House / XTC
Word Of The Day: Unipotent / Having power in one way only; esp: capable of developing only in one direction or to one end product
Integral types: Let’s start popularizing “unipotent” as a perjorative term implying a pathological, monological prediliction for one line, one capacity, one method only. Ha Ha Ha we will be the life of the party, mocking and ridiculing the Cyclops freaks relegated to one-dimensional lives! Ha Ha Ha until- *gasp* our peculiar fixation with the joke goes too … damn … far, and OH sweet Jesus in a twist of ironic justice we become the embodiment of the narrow disposition we profess to deplore. OH CRUEL, KINKY KARMA!
Speaking of fixations, get ready for a fucking rigid obsession with XTC for a while in my Song Of Day category. XTC is simply the best fucking band IN THE WORLD EVER EVER EVER. I am mainlining The Loving into my fucking jugular, people.
Did I tell you guys I’m getting implants? Yeah, my left TIT is going to be a six inch Bose Speaker blaring Mayor Of Simpleton, my right knocker is gonna be a fucking Bang & Olafson piping Senses Working Overtime.
I hope you can still hear it over the rauckus riot of Dear God thundering from my new XTC Helmet, a futuristic-ally modified NFL helmet (former property of Fran Tarkington, bitches) i had the audiologists at MIT convert into a trans-sonical ultra-audiotic hyper-vibratory MEGA PHONE.
XTC can rape me if it wants. I would let XTC in the back door. Lay me down, XTC, cuz when you do you lift me up.
I’m merely a man and I bring nothing but love for you
I’m merely a man and I want nothing that you can’t do
Are you kidding me? Have you listend to XTC? Have you read their fucking lyrics? Have you surveyed the splendor of their flawless, ingenious production? Listen to those fucking BASS LINES. Chord progressions?
Imagine the Beatles and the Beach Boys had a trans-gender orgy, and they all fucked each other pregnant, but then, Jesus Christ reincarnated into the musical vessel of their musical child. That is XTC, and all other bands are peanuts in rat shit compared to their shimmering, inexplicable brilliance.
Seriously people, whether we stop to realize it or not, XTC accelerated the evolution of consciousness on the Planet. Not just in pop music, not just in MUSIC, they lofted the sum total of bare awareness up several increments ACROSS THE BOARD. I have never, ever heard a better band. Unsurpassed, unexcelled genius.
XTC on iTunes!
This entry was posted on Thursday, January 12th, 2006 at 6:46 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Earn Enough For Us / XTC
Word Of The Day: Thanatopsis / A meditation upon death
Oh my God. XTC is FINALLY on iTunes. iTunes, I forgive you for not having Goodbye To You by Scandal. This makes up for everything.
If you want to go to sonic heaven RIGHT NOW, go to i Tunes and purchase these XTC songs, if you don’t like them, commit suicide. Wait, don’t bother, you’re already dead:
Easter Theater
Greenman
Senses Working Overtime
No Thugs In Our House (the chord progression in that chorus kills me every time!)
Ballad Of Peter Pumpkinhead
My Bird Performs
The Disappointed
Mayor Of Simpleton
The Loving
Merely Man
Earn Enough For Us
Dear God
I’m The Man Who Murdered Love
My Brown Guitar
There are many others I would tell you to get, but iTunes only has some of their songs. Don’t know why, I can’t tell you to get Sacrificial Bonfire or Dying, but it’s cool. This is cool for now.