When I met Type O Negative and Peter Steele I was a fat, confused, sixteen year-old. I was beginning to realize that my parents were as fucked up as me, the path of glory led to nowhere but the grave, and rot awaited all of us. In other words, the dude spoke to me. A penchant for the melancholic, his discussions of life and death and fragility and infidelity made a real lot of sense.

Over the years I haven’t listened to them as much as I used to. Mr. Steele and his lamentations have faded into the background of my mind. Steele, much like what used to be my incessant obsession with my own mortality, floated to the forefront every few years only to drift away.

It seems fitting then, in a year that has had me caring for a withering grandmother and once again uncomfortably aware of my own impermanence that Peter Steele would pass away.

Oh, you would do that.

One of my most magical concert moments ever took place at a Type O Negative concert. I must have been a junior in high school, and I went to the show with a pack of friends. During the bridge to Love You To Death, Steele polished off the bottle of wine he had been drinking the entire time and gunned it into the crowd. He then told us to give ourselves a hand, and the quiet bridge accompanied the sound of applause. I don’t know why it’s stuck with me throughout the decade-plus that’s passed, but I’ve always recalled it fondly.

Maybe the thing I enjoyed so much about Type O Negative was their ability to turn the morbid into the beautiful. Their songs about death weren’t nearly as depressing as they were pretty. Steele somehow managed to capture the gorgeous decay of existence.

Steele passed away this week. So it goes.

…In case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been. Ohh, Charlotte Bronte, I hated you in high school, I’m hoping can enjoy all 550+ pages of you now. I’m doubtful. I’ve had enough British women’s literature in the past three months to satisfy me for life.

Bulletstorm is a game being co-created by Epic Games and Painkiller Studios. You may recognize Epic Games as being helmed by Ciffy B, or Dude Huge, who are a bastion of insanely jacked dudes fucking firing shit.

Bulletstorm seems more of the same. Same awesomeness.

You are apparently a drunk fucking space pirate who wants to fucking fuck shit the fuck up with fucking guns. It sounds ridiculous and amazing:

via kotaku

Bulletstorm tells the story of a futuristic confederation protected by an elite band of mercenaries: Dead Echo. When Dead Echo members Grayson Hunt and Ishi Sato learn they’ve been working for the wrong side, they’re betrayed by their commander and exiled to the far reaches of the galaxy. In Bulletstorm, Grayson and Ishi find themselves surrounded by hordes of mutants and flesh eating gangs in an abandoned paradise. They have two objectives: get off the planet alive, and exact revenge on the man who sent them there.

And you get fucking perks for the crazier fucking way you fucking kill shit:

via kotaku

The skillshot system rewards players for inciting mayhem in the most creative way possible. The more insane the skillshot, the more points players collect to upgrade their character and unlock weapons, which then allows them to execute even more creative moves and exaggerated skillshots.

This shit sounds like a haven for fucking testosterone and juvenile masturbatory fucking ridiculous absurdity kapow sweetness. It sounds like a fucking boner ejaculating missile rocket extravagance. Fuck yeah.

Shit fucking pops off tonight when Dude fucking Huge fucking debuts it. I’ll be in line fingering myself at the release of Splinter Cell: Conviction or else I’d be fucking watching it.

[In this post I’ve tried to set my record for words to swears ratio.]

EddieKim made great use of the lyrics this week. Be on the lookout for

DJ, you build me up
You break me down.

Anyone who knows anything about metal knows that that means.

Ke$ha’s Tik Tok, performed in the style of Dr. Doom having a heart attack.

EddieKim strikes again! For the third week in a row, this headbanger has taken a hit from the Billboard charts and mutated it into a brutal metal anthem. I really think each has been better than the last.

This week, EddieKim tackles Lady Gaga’s Telephone.

I really feel sickness in the pit of my stomach. I say This is some trick going on here – this is not true, this is not real, this is not good.

The writer has no responsibility. Except to jack off in bed alone and type a good page.

Oh shit! Check this shit out! I was at 7-Eleven today to pick up my mandatory morning energy drink when I spied this cup. Not even wanting a slurpee, I, like a true asshole, just paid the slurpee price for the cup. I peed a little bit in excitement. It even moves when you rotate it! Swoosh!

My Mom came down into the dungeon today while I was taking this picture, and I was like “MOM CHECK IT OUT AN IRON MAN 2 CUP, IT EVEN MOVES” and she laughed and shook her head. It was the laugh of a mother knowing she bore out of her uterus a Manchild.

What can I say, it’s the little things in life, yo.

And so I take my leave of OL for the day. Momentarily I shall be boarding a bus to New Jack City to see one of my fave bands in some sort of 20th anniversary show. I leave behind many a wonderful things, but more than most, Omega Level. Being an unemployed graduate student, I have far too much time on my hands for blogging and the such.

Instead, of you know, doing actual school work.

It is with tear-stuffed eye-sockets that I take my leave of OL. Like a neurotic parent I have already discussed my absence with Pepsibones.

Ian: Can you please, please post something.

Pepsibones: We’ll see, I may have something.

Ian: No please, can you just update something?

Pepsibones: Mayhaps.

Ian: …

Pepsibones: Mischevious smile

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, that’s half our conversations go. I plead with Pepsibones for something, he smiles and quasi-commits before disapparating into the miasma.

There’s a certain anxiety that comes from not posting and keeping connected to OL. Since, you know, if you don’t post content, people don’t keep comin’ to this joint for the find introspective witticisms. Or the mentions of cocks and dong-rubbing. Both I mean, aren’t those the same thing?

The anxiety is, of course, compounded by the fact that I’m a nervous wreck, and a perpetual worry machine. I’m the definition of a homebody, and whenever I’m asked to leave the Dungeon of Horrors and Polygons, I hyper-ventilate. I told my girlfriend OMFG I WILL MISS YOU, and she’s all like “You’re leaving for a day, pfft”, which, of course, in the mind of a worry-wart only exacerbates the anxiety.

But I’ll see you fucks tomorrow evening. Be well, make good life choices!

There’s cookies in the cabinet and pizza money on the table!

The sun rose again this morning. Bastard’s persistent, I’ll give him that much.

I got rocked last night. After detailing the wonder that is Bourbon County, I decided to keep drankin’ it. Ended up watching Metallica and Megadeth DVDs with my good chums Riff and Savadave. The combination of ethanol and shreddery launched me into a different mental dimension. I actually convinced Riff to drive me back to my house so that I could retrieve the leftover pizza. In my mind, I was an Italian Robin Hood. And no, I’m not Italian.

In any case, I crashed into my bed like Abin Sur, worried that I’d wake up to find myself reeling. Miraculously, I’m feeling like Hal Jordan! Will power!

I’m kicking back, making my way through some of the work I’ve determined to finish today. My eardrums are taking a bath in Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew. And you’d better believe there’s some coffee in the mix.

How are you waking up?

[Search Engine Terms come from an app in the Word Press dashboard. It tells you the terms that people are using in google to lead to your site. Most of ours are ultra depraved and horrible. And amusing to sick people like me.]

There’s a million ridiculous terms in this entry.

• final Fantasy 13 tentacle rape
• alienpenetration
• lost jacob is a douchebag (editor’s note: fuck you, he’s rad)

But none of them can beat “Bukkake Statue of Liberty.”

Well done, inter-pervert. You will be forever granted asylum in the Cult of Omega.