Hunted By Freaks

Something or someone is after me. I don’t know who, I don’t know why, but I know they’re out there in the darkness, just beyond the range of my vision. Waiting.

I hear the scratchings late at night when I can’t sleep, like the sound of a trapped cat pawing at a closed door, trying to get out. When I do sleep, I awake suddenly with that certain dread that someone was just in my room, standing there watching me while I’m unconscious. There are foreign smells in The Compound, weird odors that don’t belong and I’m not just talking about that half-eaten italian sub I left under the pool table in the east wing basement.

The other night I stood naked in the rain at the edge of the woods behind the property with a flare gun and some hedge clippers from 2 a.m. until dawn waiting for something to show itself. Whatever it was stayed just out of sight at the edge of the brush. I heard breathing. I saw the glint of yellow eyes. There were even some amorphous footprints in the mud that I could not identify the next morning but no measure of screaming taunts would draw it out.

I’ve got a connection in black market military surplus who says he can get me some old Vietnamese ordinance that might still be in working order so I’m going to rig the property up right; land mines, trip wires, motion sensitive search lights, deadfalls and covered pits full of sharpened sticks.

Unfortunatley The Valkyries, my all female militia security force, have left me. When I began to suspect one of their member of being compromised and made my suspicions known, they stormed out in protest. They know as well as I do that anyone can be gotten to, though. Anyone can turn when the right situation presents itself. All people have weaknesses, even six foot tall, gun-toting, leggy blonde guerilla warriors.

Even Dave The Bodyguard is unavailable right now after breaking both his ankles in an ill-considered, ill-practiced performance with Cirque Du Soleil last week. It was all for charity, so what can I say, but dammit, Dave, you should know that 300 pound guys are just not built for the aerial cradle.

My phone calls to Darkfaulker have been met with naught but a recorded greeting from Fong Qui Fang saying, “I’m sorry but Doctor Darkfaulker is interdimensionally unavailable right now. Please leave a message or a psychic emanation and he will get back to you.”

In contrast, I’ve been reluctant to call Gonz O’Lager for help because there remains a fifty-fifty chance in my mind that he could be the one responsible for this and I don’t want to play right into his diabolical hands.

So I’m all alone.

And someone or something is hunting me. I’m trying to get ready but it’s not easy without any knowledge of my foes and, as time goes on, I start to lose my edge. Lack of sleep and an overuse of various stimulants are taking their toll on my mind and body. But I need to remain vigilant. I have no idea when the attack might come or what form it will take.

I’ll do what I can but even I have my limits. All the homemade explosives and fireplace tools in the world might not protect me if things go really pear-shaped here. Luckily, if it comes to abandoning my post, I know the woodlands around here like the back of my hairly toes and it wouldn’t be the first time I had to go John Rambo out there.

So what I’m saying is this, motherfuckers.

Bring it.

The Idiot Parade

We are surrounded by idiots in this world. Brainless, pointless, useless, mouthbreathing fuckheads who, by their very existence, hamper our evolution as a species.

You know who they are. You see them everyday. They’re blocking your way in traffic, not knowing whether they’re taking a left or a right or, when they do, either too oblivious of their surroundings or just without the simple courtesy or conscience necessary to put on a goddamn blinker. They’re clogging up the supermarket aisles, standing three abreast, staring slackjawed at the Ho-Hos and Ding-Dongs, completely oblivious to the line of people standing there hoping, praying to squeeze by. They’re on their cellphones constantly as they blow through stop signs and red lights or stand there annoying an entire bank queue with their drivel. There’s entire convoys of them driving scooters through Wal-Mart as we speak, bearing down on the Doritos display like a horde of glassy eyed, brain damaged wildebeasts.

And they have no idea you exist. Nor would they care if they did. Because it’s all about them, don’t you know? “Did I just cut a guy off in traffic, forcing him to take out his entire undercarriage on the median strip? Oh, well. Sorry, Heather, what were you saying about last night’s episode of Wife Swap?”

The Idiot Parade is about these people, this constant, endless procession of everyday morons who, by their astonishing lack of intelligence, morals and basic cognizance of others, make even the simplest, most basic tasks of our our lives a neverending, miserable hell.

Today’s example: A cro-magnon wannabe who, while shopping at a local supermarket, tied his feral, out of control dog to a pole outside the entrance. Not across from the entrance, or at the corner, or near the adjoining sidewalk but right outside the doors, within feet of the actual exit. So that every time anyone left the store who didn’t have that distinct odor of stale human fecal matter that he’s come to identify with his mentally defective owner, the vicious, howling mut starts a frothing monsoon of barking and snarling that would make Michael Vick proud.

Little old ladies were flinging their plums into the air with shocked terror, clawing their hair nets out and screaming. Children skinning their knees and palms as they dove to the pavement to dodge the rabid beast. I think he tore a skirt off of one woman as she went past. The entire walkway in front of the place was littered with broken eggs and crushed orange juice cartons as people abandoned their groceries in a mad scramble to get away.

So, yeah. That bastard wins Fuckface of the Week hands down.

And the parade goes on.

Remember What Stuart Adamson Said

“Stay alive.”

Of course, he eventually killed himself.

I’ve tried to make sense of this from time to time. Of course, I understand a song lyric is just a song lyric and an anthem like that, however powerful, does not define a lifetime. It doesn’t provide some sort of magical Guitar Hero Sheild against the shit life can throw at you. Epsecially when you’re dealing with such issues as substance abuse, failed relationships, estrangement from all the friends and family you’ve come to believe no longer care whether you live or die.

When you’re that weary and alone, not even the music can reach you anymore.

Which is sad, because Stuart had so much to offer. You look not only at the official discography of The Skids and Big Country to see his song writing and guitar playing skill but to the extensive amount of material that has been released in the form of eight Rarities albums, many of which via Ian Grant’s Track Records. Some of them are better than others, of course, and the very first one contains some amazing gems like the Restless Natives soundtrack and songs like When A Drum Beats and Over The Border. On each of them, however, there is at least one example of the heart and soul that Mr. Adamson put into his work, that philosophy and, dare I say it, hope that seemed essential to his art. Belief In The Small Man, as one song title said. I always thought it was in there in some form.

So maybe that’s what baffles me, in the end. I wonder if all the positve imagery was just bullshit. Maybe I’m not looking close enough and the optimism faded away with the failure of Peace In Our Time. I look at Driving To Damascus and it becomes harder to see much faith. Your Spirit To Me, for example.

“There’s only seconds of your life
That really count for anything
All the rest is killing time
Waiting for a train.”

The man’s troubles have been well documented so I’ll not detail them here, once again. Suffice to say, there were times when life became rather grim and painful for him, like it does at times for all of us. Thus, I never judge a man and his final decisions, however much I wish there had been some other conclusion to the story. A different tune, another song.

I miss Stuart, I really do. It seems every time I hit shuffle on my iPod, within the first dozen or so songs there is always something from The Skids or BC to make me smile. Out of Town, the other day. The demo version of The Crossing the next. Restless Natives in it’s entirety on a long drive home just recently.

The music, at least, is still alive and that’ll have to be enough, I guess. Nothing can ever change how I feel when I hear that music, those anthems. It soars now as it ever did.

As for Stuart? Well, here’s hoping he managed to find his Eiledon at last, somewhere out there.

Here’s hoping we all do.

The Horror

Things have been dark here at the Compound lately. Sometimes the months just before Spring hits are the worst up here. Melting snow makes a muddy mess of the environs when the days are warm yet there are still nights when you’d swear it was still early February. A sort of late winter depression sets in and you just don’t feel like going out very much and you find yourself hiding away, hoping things will get better.

But they don’t, really.

I’ve not been very social lately, I confess. I know, I know. You look at Ken Socrates and you see a Man of the World with associates and connections on every corner of the globe, an man as comfortable crashing a black-tie event at a local embassary as he is with a group of doomed and hopeless drunks huddled around a barrell fire behind some shady local Chinese restaurant.

Little do you realize what a solitary existence a man like myself really leads. A combination of a general anti-social nature and the necessities of a writer make for what some would consider a very lonely lifestyle. Those few genuine friends I do have all seem scattered about, miles away from each other, except for those rare occasions we find time to gather and commiserate with one another.

Thus, my current state of existence, holed up in the Bunker, doors locked, shades drawn, a ready stock of blood pollutants, music, literature and films to entertain when the quiet becomes too much for the mind to bear.

So I’ve taken to watching horror movies as a past time. Maybe it’s just the mood I’m in these days. Maybe it’s the only sensible response to a deteriorating world creeping ever onward to potential apocalypse.

One thing I’ve learned is that Americans no longer make the best horror movies. In fact, we’re not even in the running anymore. While we crank out recycled garbage like Friday The 13th or generic formula hackwork like The Uninvited, the European film industry has been producing out some amazing work, some if it profound and outright astonishing.

Take the Swedish vampire fable, Let The Right One In. Not only is it perhaps the finest blood sucker film ever made but it’s an artistic masterpiece, subtle and sublime in tone and content; emotional, shocking, touching. An absolute, utter classic.

I’ve also just watched Dead Snow, a Norweigian Nazi-Zombie gorefest that owes a bit of it’s flare to stuff like Evil Dead 2 but is just so well done and so much fun it makes you giddy with bloodlust.

If you want a more intense and disturbing experience, the French have that market utterly fucking cornered. Having seen both Inside and Martyrs in the space of one week, I can honestly say that I’m glad I have a strong stomach. These are haunting, brutal films that show humanity at it’s bloody limit, pushing the envelope of the horror genre to it’s very edges, challenging it’s audience to the extreme. For my money, Inside was the better horror fim but Martyrs will stay with you longer as you ponder the meaning behind the profoundly disturbing events portrayed within. Neither should be considered a “date movie”.

Unless it’s Squeaky Fromme you’re dating, that is.

So that’s the update from here. A long time coming, I know, but now you see why. I’ll try to keep things around here more current as time goes on and, hopefully, the mood improves.

In the meantime, you all just hang in there. We’re in this together.

Buy Me Some Peanuts

And Crack.

Which is what I must have been on when I wrote this.

It’s a bit outside the range of my normal fare, I do admit, but you have to remember that Ken Socrates was born a full-blooded member of Red Sox Nation, something that’s about as easily discarded for a native Bostonian as catholic guilt.

Remember, also, that the KSWNO is also based in Boston so we cannot avoid being surrounded by and caught up in the annual hype surrounding the favorite pastime of the area. We succumb to it as much as anyone, actually.

So, if you’re interested, please check it out. It’s a decent summary of where the team stands going into the 2009 Season and an excellent primer for someone thinking about joining The Nation and wanting to know a little bit more about the current team.

Enjoy it and maybe we’ll see you at Fenway Park this summer.

Proud Alumnus

Always The Sea

I’m still alive in here, folks. Just in case anyone is wondering. For those few faithful, remember.

No Lucifer.

And did you notice
when you began to disappear?

increment by increment

Until there’s nothing but.

Carrion.

Always the sea.

Brilliantine mortality.

Lepre-gone

Shocking news from the NBA as reports confirm that the World Champion Boston Celtics have parted ways with their acrobatic mascot “Lucky” amidst a swirl of rumour and controversy. Indications are not clear as to whether 33 year old Maine native Damon Lee Blust, who would dress in a garish mockery of a leprechaun costume and perform aerial dunks with the aid of a trampoline at the team’s home games, was outright fired or if it was just a case of “philosophical differences”.

Rumours abound that Mr. Blust was not exactly representing the legendary franchise in a manner management and ownership considered appropriate with sources citing unreliability in his attendance to charity events and a recent citation for speeding and driving with a suspended license. Sources also note him exhibiting a certain arrogance relating to his perceived stature within the organization, all of which suggests a case of a wee fellow with an ego spinning out of control. Apparently, since a well publicized appearance on the Conan O’Brien Show, the erstwhile mascot was increasingly convinced that he was “the face of the franchise” and acted thusly.

A comment released after his departure would certainly suggest a certain amount of complete delusion concerning his role on the team. “…I’m not getting any younger and like most professional athletes there comes a time to step out of the limelight…”

I’m sorry, Lucky me lad, but as hard as I look I can’t find your ppg or rebounding numbers for the 2007-08 season. Have I missed something?

Of course, it’s not the first time a team mascot has gotten a big head. There was the time the Philly Phanatic, in the midst of a savage drug and alcohol binge, was accused of inappropriate suggestions and conduct toward a group of high school cheerleaders during a local homecoming parade. No one in Dallas will soon forget the antics of Rowdy the Cowboy when the internet was flooded with candid photos of him, in full costume, at the 2004 Texas Strippers Convention. Then there was the time The Swinging Friar stole the Padre’s team jet for a lost weekend in Vegas with Bobby Brown, something the franchise’s image has yet to fully recover from.

In the case of Damon Lee Blust, he quite obviously pushed his luck a little too far and his time has clearly passed, as he now fades even further into the obscurity and indignity of a Fallen Mascot for whom there is, most certainly, no pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow.

SBP3

The latest textual stylings of the KSWNO’s resident Arts and Entertainment Critic, Stamford Buckforth Pimplton, III is now available for public consumption over at the main site. As always, he is insightful, eloquent and erudite as he provides comprehensive coverage of the Midwest Arts Scene from it’s dynamic epicentre, Portsmouth, Ohio. Those who know Stamford would agree that his artistic tastes are highly refined and that his works command our attention and respect. They also tell us he posesses truly fabulous penmanship and a clean, fragrant scent, whatever that means.

In this particular article, he brings the scholarly back to the schools as he sizes up various offerings from the drama departments of several regional educational institutions and finds them wanting. Apparently not too many of these young, talent barren little scamps have a future career destined for Broadway but, hey, that’s why they invented meth, right?

Who says we don’t appreciate a little goddamned culture around here, eh?

The Love Language

Lalita

The more I think back to seeing these young folks live last week, the more I listen to their self-titled debut album, released this month on Bladen County Records, the more I’m falling under the irresistable sway of Stu McLamb’s ridiculously brilliant songwriting and performance skills. This folks, is the good stuff. The stuff you keep underneath the bar for special occasions.

There are few better feelings in life, for a true music lover, than that of discovering a new band that you are certain is not only a “keeper” but who’s music is so good, so well done, so impactful on you, that you know you’re going to carry it around with you forever. That may seem like a bold statement so early on in listening to these guys but you’ll need to trust me on this. I know from whence I speak on matters such as these. It’s a very rare thing but when it happens, you know.

On that note, a bit more.

Sparxxxx

Manteo

“Honey, do what you want ’cause I won’t remember.”

Love it.