So Gorman Moloko has gotten himself involved with this band who’s producing some interesting late night sci-fi tinted, post-new wave oddness/goodness.
They’re called Abandoned City. Their first official release will be an e.p. called Untethered on Dark Heart Records.
Give them a try if you’re a stuck-out-of-time renegade from the early Eighties like I am.
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.
I mentioned when I began this blog that, in order to devote more time to various writing projects, I would be taking a short step backward from my positions at the KSWNO, taking less of a hands-on editorial role there. In my place, I have named my great friend and journalistic compadre Gorman Moloko as Managing Editor to run the show. Against the wishes of certain factions within the Organization, I might add. To hell with them. Gorm is a good man, a man with a conscience, and, so he believes, a man with great vision. I’ve known him for nearly 30 years and I trust him more than any man alive to have the best interests of the KSWNO at heart.
So I put him in charge of the thing.
Apparently, it didn’t take long for the power to go to his head. Not that I mind that much, and believe me, I’ll be watching and, if needed, will step in to knock some heads, but ol’ Gorman seems to have some grand ideas for the website and the Organization that he seems to want to implement right away. As soon as he gets back from waiting in line to see The Day The Earth Stood Still, anyways.
So, if you’re curious about what’s going on over there while I’m preoccupied with other things, check out Gorman’s State of the Site Address to hear what he’s planning.
Then check in on the main site from time to time to see if it actually develops.
I know I’ll be paying close attention, that’s for damn sure.
When you see the words “joint” and “compound” in association with me, admit it, the first thing you think of is Reggae Night at the Bunker. And it’s true, the Party Wing, as we call the southwest section of the Compound, which features three bars, a heated indoor pool with jacuzzi, a mini-soundstage and dance floor, full home theatre and various comfortable “conversation” suites, has seen it’s share of smoke filled, bass and drum thumping, dreadlocked free-for-alls but, in this case, it’s not what I’m referring to.
No, this is that other sort of plastering I’m talking about. As you might know, The Compound is always in a state of ongoing renovation. It’s never quite reached a state of construction that I’m completely satisfied with so I tinker and adjust and add and remove all the time. Recent example, the combat cage I assembled in the basement in what is now the Thunderdome Room, which those of you who attended that post-apocalyptic, post-punk theme party in August are probably still having nightmares about.
What you might not be aware of, however, is how much of this work I do myself. Yeah, it’s not easy, I know, considering the near limitless demands on my time as writer, editor and manager of one of the world’s most powerful, influential news organizations, but there are times when a man just has to get in there and get hands on with his shit. So yesterday, before I ever sat down to compose a single line of text, ol’ Ken had the putty knives, the drywall saws, the joint compound and plaster and all necessary implements out and was bearing down on a remodel of one of the common dining rooms here.
What it will be when I’ve finished, who knows. Not a dining room, that’s for sure. Possibly a room full of shelves for the various collectables I’ve accumulated in my years of world travel. Gorman Moloko tells me that, if it looks good, I can put his entire action figure collection on display. Fuckin’ fabulous, Gorm.
Anyway, it’s not that I don’t trust contractors to do the work. Sure, they’re overpriced, lazy, most of them are addicted to prescription pain-killers and would otherwise be hopeless indigents if they didn’t know how to pound a nail, but they’re essentially good guys. No, it’s just a matter of pure Ken Socrates pride. The feeling of doing the job yourself and getting it done right is almost as good as publishing the latest scathing expose on another Republucan internet porn scandal.
It was about 11 pm last night, then, that my helper and I finally finished grinding out our workday and only then, after most of the dried spackling was washed off, was I finally free to sit down and put pen to paper.
And you wonder why I’m essentially a hunchbacked, worn down, pain wracked nub of a human being these days.
Sheesh.
