Techno Robot Pudding

fuckin’ pie. there ya go, kids. it’s fuckin’ pie. not cake, but pie.

once again, if anyone is following, i’m back to meditate on the meaningless drivel that is this great life we all live. with thoughts meandering through this gruesome carapace-covered lump of soggy fat some might call a brain. i suppose that’s what i call it too. when it’s not taunting me.

where’ve i been? where am i going? does it matter? does anyone care? all questions. all going to be unanswered. because if Lost has taught us anything, it’s best to keep people in the dark. i suppose that goes for the political world too. just know that every time i had something resembling an inkling of a worthwhile thought, just as quickly i crumpled it up and figuratively discarded it into the abyss that is forgetting.

so while i’m granted the gift of a certain literary eloquence, i’m going to ask an important question. where, oh where- did all the team players go? is it just me now? did i miss the meeting where we said “hey. let’s discard this notion of anything resembling selflessness.” i probably did. i think House was on that night.

traffic patterns are an excellent example. you can merge into a lane at the last minute, relying on a Blanche DuBois notion of some stranger inflicting his kindness on you; or you can think ahead and merge two miles before during an opening that bothers no one. my 40 minutes in traffic today was certainly anecdotal evidence of the former. let’s all merge at once. in fact, let’s merge at the exact point where three lanes happen to come together. while i talk on my cell phone and swerve in front of people in my urban assault vehicle. victory, i say. pure victory.

oh how i wish i could be absent from that. i’ve been absent from so many other things lately. just not the right ones.

so this blog’s been inactive for some time now.

the last year or so the post count has been very sparse. dwindling, in fact.

there have been several false starts, and it makes me wonder if a change in approach is forthcoming on my part.

it very well could be.

but for now this page remains, as i mull over what to do exactly.

on one hand, i’d hate to terminate something that’s so full of my musings and whatnot.

on the other, where has it really gone?

for the moment, enjoy the archives. new material may be forthcoming. here or elsewhere.

Back to cryptic post titles. Back to typing things. Back to… here?

I suppose this could be yet another false start in my history of false starts. I could once again be talking about doing something and end up doing absolutely nothing. But that’s where the interesting part comes in- you don’t know if any of it’s true. Then again, I kind of don’t either.

So let’s do a quick round-up of my head. Apathy, confusion, boredom, hunger, anxiety, elation, exhaustion, hope, pity, humility, pessimism, pride, regret, stubbornness, futility, energy, aggression, jealousy, vengefulness, relaxation, aloofness, addiction, creativity, smugness. That should do it.

My dreams have gotten so weird and realistic that I sometimes have trouble discerning them and reality. It can be the case that at points in time I wish that one or the other were true. Unfortunately you can’t pick or choose. Sucks.

I wish I could come up with something funny right now, but it seems the tank is empty. So instead my wry prose is employed to fill the space between brain and nothingness. Funny how words can have so much power. How they can be twisted around. How they can hurt or heal.

I might just go lay down now. It seems the moments of the day where I get the most respite are those that involve me laying down and staring up at the ceiling. Or when I’m out and about doing fun things. But it’s time for a break now.

Oh ho ho! He’s alive. And thus the unannounced hiatus of five months ends. What have I been doing for five months? The same thing you’ve been doing for five months. The answer is: nobody cares. Now out to sports with Steve Winwood.

So much new music, so little time in which to talk about it. Note the presence of the Sonific Songspot in the sidebar. I found some tunes I actually like on their site, incorporated it with the widget, and BAM! Emeril sues me.

I will say that the new Radiohead is quite good. I’m enjoying the second disc of In Rainbows right now, and it was definitely worth the wait. I buy music sometimes. Sometimes I also drink tea. Don’t you see the big picture now?

There was nothing in that. Don’t take it to heart. Take it to stomach, along with two Aleve and a glass of warm salt water.

Time to answer some questions from the ol’ dusty mailbag. Let’s see…

Scott M. from San Francisco writes: “What is your favorite color?”

Well Scott, it’s yellow. Even though I never wear anything yellow or own much of anything that is yellow. Sometimes you just have to express your favorite color by being your favorite color. Kurt Cobain’s was blue.

Huang Chung from 1986 writes: “Do you have a Facebook page?”

Thanks for writing in Huang. Remember those Dance Hall Days? I sure do. To answer your question, only sometimes when I get really bored and the lights are out.

T. Lee from Tommyland writes: “Who’s your favorite drummer?”

Hey, any relation to Ang Lee? Or Spike Lee? Or Gigli? I would have to say my favorite drummer is Pat Steward, who’s been seen drumming for the likes of Bryan Adams, Limblifter, and Matthew Good to name a few. The guy keeps a great beat and reminds me of Keith Moon with a modern touch. He’s fantastic live. Number two would be Stephen Morris from New Order. He shares my birthday.

Rob D. from Wishville writes: “When will you return to consistently providing content on websites including your own?”

The Sparks Are Gonna Fly, Rob. I think it’s funny how pie doesn’t taste as good when you leave it on the counter for three weeks. You rock!

That’s all the time for reader mail today. Tune in next week when we will show you how to gut a live rat and use its entrails to cover up unsightly beer stains on your great-grandmother’s antique rugs. Rock ‘n Roll!

I’ve been feeling self-deprecating lately. No, not self-defecating, that’s what old people do. Anyway, I’ve thought up several fun snippets which could be used in the future to describe this little web-bound collection of my messes.

“You know the feeling you get when you throw up a little in the back of your throat and it burns? That’s how my brain feels after reading this garbage.”

“Chris Weber? Like the basketball player? Why does he like techno?”

“Worst midget porn site I’ve been to. Ever.”

“His opinions seem to be justified by nothing but sheer will. And his self-promoting ranting does nothing but prove what a narcissistic ignorant prick he happens to be.”

“Why does he come off as so mean? I bet he’s really a nice guy in real life that kisses babies and pets puppies and shit.”

“Techno Robot Pudding is what you would get if Kurt Vonnegut and George Carlin had a child in the aftermath of Chernobyl, raised it on a diet of toilet bowl cleaner fortified with brain-eating bacteria, and then forced it to write entries at gunpoint while being bludgeoned with a sack of potatoes.”

“I’d rather be cutting my wrists and dipping them in a bath of Hillary Clinton’s discarded femininity than reading this obscenity of pseudo-stylistic egotism!”

“Does he even think up the words, or does he haphazardly mash the keyboard with a large ham before posting things?”

That’s enough for now. Stay tuned for more painful posts of premeditated pomp from this cartel of calamitous characters. Courage.