IT"S MOTHERFUCKING BLUE MURDER TIME

A quiet item on Blabbermouth Wednesday morning announced the departure of ex-Whitesnake guitarist John Sykes from Thin Lizzy. While rational people wouldn't deign to register the information, for Blue Murder fans it sets off alarm bells and flashing lights. Last Fall, Sykes shot down an agitating Carmen Appice, BM's mustachioed skinsman, who pledged a BM tour in a 2006 interview. But as a wingnut who counts the summer of Blue Murder discovery as a major turning point in my life, it's my sonofabitching right to just ya know choose to believe in a coming string of reunion shows before Appice's body stops moving cuz he's like 70. My mindpower worked on Faith No More and Cave In. Everybody should follow my example and that of a smattering of Bmouth commenters. It's just like religious people who submit to begging on their knees, then claim divine favor when their wishes are accidentally fulfilled. You're welcome, Faith No More fans! I did that shit! Now Blue Murder super happy let's go!

SLAP HIS TITS AND RUB YOUR BALLS ON HIS NOSE

This is news to me but apparently I have an unspeakable Dave Wyndorf problem cuz not only did I first credit the Monster Magnet frontman with a guest vocal on Nashville Pussy's latest record (belonging to Danko Jones), but today I also was willing to bet it was Dave again on Steel Panther's "Turn Out The Lights" (above). Which makes it extra disturbing that this time I mistook him for M Shadows of Avenged Sevenfold, the band currently atop American Metal's suckpile.

A close neighbor of theirs is Killswitch Engage and I officially give up resisting the urge to bitch about what is going on at MetalSucks' joyous 21 Best Metal Albums Of The 21st Century ... So Far. Here goes: Goddamn I can't stand Killswitch Engage. They're probably good at their shit, but their shit is the opposite of what I like about music in every respect, except for heavy guitars. Yep the five men of KsE only do one thing right and most of the credit for that goes to their amps and shit. So. For a while there I was secretly proud that my name was listed among some righteous co-voters at MS, though I suspect now we're all secretly ashamed of our collective awful taste. Is it time for the voter pool to devour itself with accusations and insinuations, shattering into a dozen goon-enforced factions? Will the controversy of two goddamn fucking KsE records in the top 6 culminate in carnage as representatives of each splinter group face each other in the fucking octagon? If so will Dallas and Doc Coyle find themselves on opposite sides? Will beards counteract my first strike clothesline capabilities?

THE MONTH ANNIVERSARY OF HOOM!'S ANNIVERSARY

It should be illegal to write about your own writing, but you, as a devotee to the Metal arts, need to know why that, after 13 smooth months, HooM! is having technical issues. The auto-publish function is fucking up, and therefore content isn't going up on time blah bluh blork. I'm intensely lazy and averse to complaint emails so let's hope HooM!'s vaguely ghostlike host -- which demands no money and not even adherence to public decency guidelines in return for service -- will be alerted by sirens and flashing red lights to the combination of words Why+the+fuck+isn't+my+shit+publishing+on+time and you're+making+me+look+like+a+dingus+thanks+jerkdongs. Wait actually the watchers should probably concentrate on funneling to the FBI data on sex pervert networks and hate anthems about neo-nazi gang boot attacks (above). But seriously Dangerous Toys rulz 4 life sukkerz.

KICKIN ASS ON THE WI-YULD SIDE

The greatest book as far as I know is Catch-22, and one of its most haunting scenes describes a lonely night-walk through Rome, where the reader is powerless hostage to progressively disturbing scenes of violence and apathy. In the hands of author Joseph Heller, the terror of life during wartime thickens as each successive atrocity is observed first through the eyes of Yossarian, a bombardier both in awe of and in revolt against the bizarre logic wielded by men driving him to his death, and a second time by groups of inert gawkers beneath dim streetlights. His trail ends with a corpse at his feet, a shocking arrest, and Kafka-nightmarish bureaucrats peddling an odious bargain for his survival.

I bring this up because my usually-serene walk from the movies last night was less violent but nearly as gross and terrifying. Strolling along the north wall of Sony Studios, I saw my path ahead was blocked by a caped man pointing a flashlight into a rubbish pile. At midnight on a Sunday. I turned north where after a few steps I was startled by a delivery guy/ninja whom I presume dropped from a tree in order to materialize on my right arm like that. Turning west again, I quickened my pace to get out of spitting distance of those two weird guys who I saw at lunch yelling epithets at the taco place's security guard. Next thing I knew, somebody was barfing to my left. It wasn't polite little heaves either; dude was soul-puking. I scanned the bushes for Mike but they were empty, which meant the barfer was in the lobby of that pressboard law firm. Weirrrd. I again reached civilization (as delineated by the CPK) and was home free from there. Yes it's a glamorous life I've got going here.

SUICIDAL TENDENCIES SHIRT SPURS DOUCHEICIDE

It's painful that after achieving my life's mission to reside in Suicidal Tendencies country, I realize that I'm more than a decade too late. This is why it's dangerous to set your life's goals at age 11 and based on an ad in Thrasher. My paradise of young, angry Metal heads strutting around on angel dust with flannels split to the chin, chinos, and hat brims flipped up may be a long-dead memory/hallucination, but it's promising that ST mark III is alive and playing mediocre punk in Europe. Cuz that means the day is drawing near when the Thrash revival penetrates the ST camp, resulting in a full-blown reunion/celebration of How Will I Laugh Tomorrow.../Controlled By Hatred.../Lights...-era material.

For now, new single "Come Alive" at least hints at classic crossover thrash (guitar solos!) which is nice. The next step is to strip singer Mike Muir of that bar league softball team jersey-style ST shirt. On second thought, it's a step up from this blasphemous douche bag action (above).